She was astonished and showed it. She could not understand a man who had displayed such warm, even touching, appreciation of her kindness leaving her without a word, taking the opportunity of her momentary absence to disappear, to shirk away—for she put it like that to herself.
“No—he did not want coffee.”
“But was anything the matter?”
She looked down at the broken glass, and saw stains upon the ground among the fragments.
“What’s this?” she said. “Oh, the African liqueur!”
Suddenly Androvsky put his arm round her with an iron grip, and led her away out of the tent. They crossed the space to the sleeping-tent in silence. She felt governed, and as if she must yield to his will, but she also felt confused, even almost alarmed mentally. The sleeping-tent was dark. When they reached it Androvsky took his arm from her, and she heard him searching for the matches. She was in the tent door and could see that there was a light in the tower. De Trevignac must be there already. No doubt it was he who had passed her in the night when she was returning to the camp. Androvsky struck a match and lit a candle. Then he came to the tent door and saw her looking at the light in the tower.
“Come in, Domini,” he said, taking her by the hand, and speaking gently, but still with a firmness that hinted at command.
She obeyed, and he quickly let down the flap of canvas, and shut out the night.
“What is it, Boris?” she asked.
She was standing by one of the beds.