“Who know nothing of the fundamental law,” said Lucilla.
So they went along a spur of the terrace, a sort of rococo bastion guarding the entrance to the hotel, and there they found solitude. They sat beneath the velvet, star-hung sky. Fifty yards away flowed the Nile, with now and then a flashing ripple. From a ghyassa with ghostly white sail creeping down the river came an Arab chant. The flowers of the bougainvillea on the hotel porch gleamed dim and pale. A touch of khamsin gave languor to the air. Lucilla drew off her gloves, bade him put them down for her. He preferred to keep them warm and fragrant, a part of herself.
“Now about this fundamental law,” she said in her lazy contralto.
Her hand hung carelessly, temptingly over the arm of her chair. Graciously she allowed him to take and hold it.
“Surely you know.”
“I want you to tell me, Mr. Philosopher.”
He dallied with the adorable situation.
“Since when have I become Master and you Pupil, Lucilla?”
“Since you began, presumably to plunge deep into profundities of wisdom where I can’t follow you. Behold me at your feet.”
He moved his chair close to hers and she allowed him to play with her slender fingers.