He sat down again in his chair, making it creak with his substantial weight.
“I don’t know. If my husband is happy here. But he prefers the solitudes, I think.”
“Does he? And yet he’s gone into the city. Plenty of bustle there at night, I can tell you. Well, now, I don’t agree with your husband. I know it’s been said that solitude is good for the sad, but I think just the contrary. Ah!”
The last sonorously joyous exclamation jumped out of Father Beret at the sight of Ouardi, who at this moment entered with a large tray, covered with a coffee-pot, cups, biscuits, bon-bons, cigars, and a bulging flask of some liqueur flanked by little glasses.
“You fare generously in the desert I see, Madame,” he exclaimed. “And so much the better. What’s your servant’s name?”
Domini told him.
“Ouardi! that means born in the time of the roses.” He addressed Ouardi in Arabic and sent him off into the darkness chuckling gaily. “These Arab names all have their meanings—Onlagareb, mother of scorpions, Omteoni, mother of eagles, and so on. So much the better! Comforts are rare here, but you carry them with you. Sugar, if you please.”
Domini put two lumps into his cup.
“If you allow me!”
He added two more.