“The Arabs have a saying: ‘The desert is the garden of Allah.’”
Domini did not ascend the tower of the hotel that morning. She had seen enough for the moment, and did not wish to disturb her impressions by adding to them. So she walked back to the Hotel du Desert with Batouch.
Count Anteoni had said good-bye to her at the door of the garden, and had begged her to come again whenever she liked, and to spend as many hours there as she pleased.
“I shall take you at your word,” she said frankly. “I feel that I may.”
As they shook hands she gave him her card. He took out his. “By the way,” he said, “the big hotel you passed in coming here is mine. I built it to prevent a more hideous one being built, and let it to the proprietor. You might like to ascend the tower. The view at sundown is incomparable. At present the hotel is shut, but the guardian will show you everything if you give him my card.”
He pencilled some words in Arabic on the back from right to left.
“You write Arabic, too?” Domini said, watching the forming of the pretty curves with interest.
“Oh, yes; I am more than half African, though my father was a Sicilian and my mother a Roman.”
He gave her the card, took off his hat and bowed. When the tall white door was softly shut by Smain, Domini felt rather like a new Eve expelled from Paradise, without an Adam as a companion in exile.