They had been having coffee in the tent and had just finished. Androvsky got up from his chair and went to the tent door. The grey of the sky was pierced by a gleaming shaft from the sun.
“Do you mind if I go?” he said, turning towards her after a glance to the desert.
“No, but aren’t you tired?”
He shook his head.
“I couldn’t ride, and now I can ride. I couldn’t shoot, and I’m just beginning—”
“Go,” she said quickly. “Besides, we want gazelle for dinner, Batouch says, though I don’t suppose we should starve without it.” She came to the tent door and stood beside him, and he put his arm around her.
“If I were alone here, Boris,” she said, leaning against his shoulder, “I believe I should feel horribly sad to-day.”
“Shall I stay?”
He pressed her against him.
“No. I shall know you are coming back. Oh, how extraordinary it is to think we lived so many years without knowing of each other’s existence, that we lived alone. Were you ever happy?”