“There will be a moon to-night, won’t there?” she said, looking up at the starry sky.
“Yes, Madame, later.”
“What time will it rise?”
“Between nine and ten.”
She stood in the road, thinking. It had occurred to her that she had never seen moonrise in the desert.
“And now it is”—she looked at her watch—“only eight.”
“Does Madame wish to see the moon come up pouring upon the palms—”
“Don’t talk so much, Batouch,” she said brusquely.
To-night the easy and luscious imaginings of the poet worried her like the cry of a mosquito. His presence even disturbed her. Yet what could she do without him? After a pause she said:
“Can one go into the desert at night?”