The Count turned to Domini.
“This is an interesting fellow. Would you like to know him?”
Her mind said no, yet her body assented. For she bowed her head. The Count beckoned. The Diviner stepped stealthily on to the sand with an air of subtle triumph, and Smain swung forward the great leaf of palm wood.
“Wait!” the Count cried, as if suddenly recollecting something. “Where is Monsieur Androvsky?”
“Isn’t he——?” Domini glanced round. “I don’t know.”
He went quickly to the door and looked out. The Arabs, silent now and respectful, crowded about him, salaaming. He smiled at them kindly, and spoke to one or two. They answered gravely. An old man with one eye lifted his hand, in which was a tomtom of stretched goatskin, and pointed towards the oasis, rapidly moving his toothless jaws. The Count stepped back into the garden, dismissed his pensioners with a masterful wave of the hand, and himself shut the door.
“Monsieur Androvsky has gone—without saying good-bye,” he said.
Again Domini felt ashamed for Androvsky.
“I don’t think he likes my pensioners,” the Count added, in amused voice, “or me.”
“I am sure—” Domini began.