“Excuse me, Monsieur,” he said, speaking to the priest but not looking at him. “I am really feeling unwell. Another day—”
He went out of the tent and disappeared silently into the darkness. Domini and the priest looked after him. Then the priest, with an air of embarrassment, took up his hat from the table. His cigar had gone out, but he pulled at it as if he thought it was still alight, then took it out of his mouth and, glancing with a naive regret at the good things upon the table, his half-finished coffee, the biscuits, the white box of bon-bons—said:
“Madame, I must be off. I’ve a good way to go, and it’s getting late. If you will allow me—”
He went to the tent door and called, in a powerful voice:
“Belgassem! Belgassem!”
He paused, then called again:
“Belgassem!”
A light travelled over the sand from the farther tents of the servants. Then the priest turned round to Domini and shook her by the hand.
“Good-night, Madame.”
“I’m very sorry,” she said, not trying to detain him. “You must come again. My husband is evidently ill, and—”