“Where we sat this morning?”
“Was it only—yes.”
“Certainly.”
“Oh; but you are going away to-morrow! You have a lot to do probably?”
“Nothing. My men will arrange everything.”
She got up, and they walked in silence till they saw once more the immense spaces of the desert bathed in the afternoon sun. As Domini looked at them again she knew that their wonder, their meaning, had increased for her. The steady crescendo that was beginning almost to frighten her was maintained—the crescendo of the voice of the Sahara. To what tremendous demonstration was this crescendo tending, to what ultimate glory or terror? She felt that her soul was as yet too undeveloped to conceive. The Diviner had been right. There was a veil around it, like the veil of the womb that hides the unborn child.
Under the jamelon tree she sat down once more.
“May—I light a cigar?” the Count asked.
“Do.”
He struck a match, lit a cigar, and sat down on her left, by the garden wall.