She was silent. There was a sound of hopelessness in his voice that frightened her. It was like the voice of a man rejecting remedies because he knew that he was stricken with a mortal disease.
“Why did that priest come here to-night?” he asked.
They were both standing up, but now he sat down in a chair heavily, taking his hand from hers.
“Merely to pay a visit of courtesy.”
“At night?”
He spoke suspiciously. Again she thought of Mogar, and of how, on his return from the dunes, he had said to her, “There is a light in the tower.” A painful sensation of being surrounded with mystery came upon her. It was hateful to her strong and frank nature. It was like a miasma that suffocated her soul.
“Oh, Boris,” she exclaimed bluntly, “why should he not come at night?”
“Is such a thing usual?”
“But he was visiting the tents over there—of the nomads, and he had heard of our arrival. He knew it was informal, but, as he said, in the desert one forgets formalities.”
“And—and did he ask for anything?”