She looked at his bright eyes and sighed, thinking of her husband.
“You will go back to Beni-Mora?” she asked.
“I don’t think so. I am inclined to go farther into the desert, farther among the people of my own faith. I don’t want to be surrounded by French. Some day perhaps I may return. But at present everything draws me onward. Tell me”—he dropped the earnest tone in which he had been speaking, and she heard once more the easy, half-ironical man of the world—“do you think me a half-crazy eccentric?”
“No!”
“You look at me very gravely, even sadly.”
“I was thinking of the men who cannot pray,” she said, “even in the desert.”
“They should not come into the Garden of Allah. Don’t you remember that day by the garden wall, when—”
He suddenly checked himself.
“Forgive me,” he said simply. “And now tell me about yourself. You never wrote that you were going to be married.”
“I knew you would know it in time—when we met again.”