“What has happened?”
“Why—happened?”
“I don’t understand. Why did Monsieur de Trevignac go away so suddenly?”
“Domini, do you care whether he is here or gone? Do you care?” He sat on the edge of the bed and drew her down beside him.
“Do you want anyone to be with us, to break in upon our lives? Aren’t we happier alone?”
“Boris!” she said, “you—did you let him see that you wanted him to go?”
It occurred to her suddenly that Androvsky, in his lack of worldly knowledge, might perhaps have shown their guest that he secretly resented the intrusion of a stranger upon them even for one evening, and that De Trevignac, being a sensitive man, had been hurt and had abruptly gone away. Her social sense revolted at this idea.
“You didn’t let him see that, Boris!” she exclaimed. “After his escape from death! It would have been inhuman.”
“Perhaps my love for you might even make me that, Domini. And if it did—if you knew why I was inhuman—would you blame me for it? Would you hate me for it?”
There was a strong excitement dawning in him. It recalled to her the first night in the desert when they sat together on the ground and watched the waning of the fire.