Beyond, through the doorway, she saw an open space upon which the sunlight streamed, three palm trees, and a second door which was shut. Above this second door was written:
“Les dames n’entrent pas ici.”
As she looked the figure of a very old monk with a long white beard shuffled slowly across the patch of sunlight and disappeared.
The coachman turned round.
“You descend here,” he said in a cheerful voice. “Madame will be entertained in the parlour on the right of the first door, but Monsieur can go on to the hotellerie. It’s over there.”
He pointed with his whip and turned his back to them again.
Domini sat quite still. Her lips moved, once more repeating the words of The Imitation. Androvsky got up from his seat, stepped heavily out of the carriage, and stood beside it. The coachman was busy lighting a long cigar. Androvsky leaned forward towards Domini with his arms on the carriage and looked at her with tearless eyes.
“Domini,” at last he whispered. “Domini!”
Then she turned to him, bent towards him, put her hands on his shoulders and looked into his face for a long time, as if she were trying to see it now for all the years that were perhaps to come. Her eyes, too, were tearless.
At last she leaned down and touched his forehead with her lips.