He paused in the full flow of his talk. Androvsky’s eyes had wandered from his face to the table, upon which stood the coffee, the liqueur, and the other things brought by Ouardi. It was evident even to the self-centred priest that his host was not listening to him. There was a moment’s awkward pause. Then Domini said:
“Boris, Monsieur l’Aumonier!”
She did not speak loudly, but with an intention that recalled the mind of her husband. He stepped slowly into the tent and held out his hand in silence to the priest. As he did so the lamplight fell full upon him.
“Boris, are you ill?” Domini exclaimed.
The priest had taken Androvsky’s hand, but with a doubtful air. His cheerful and confident manner had died away, and his eyes, fixed upon his host, shone with an astonishment which was mingled with a sort of boyish glumness. It was evident that he felt that his presence was unwelcome.
“I have a headache,” Androvsky said. “I—that is why I returned.”
He dropped the priest’s hand. He was again looking towards the table.
“The sun was unusually fierce to-day,” Domini said. “Do you think—”
“Yes, yes,” he interrupted. “That’s it. I must have had a touch of the sun.”
He put his hand to his head.