Androvsky scarcely spoke. Now that he was sitting at a meal with Domini
he was obviously embarrassed. All his movements were self-conscious. He
seemed afraid to eat and refused the gazelle. Mustapha broke out into
turbulent surprise and prolonged explanations of the delicious flavour
of this desert food. But Androvsky still refused, looking desperately
disconcerted.
"It really is delicious," said Domini, who was eating it. "But perhaps
you don't care about meat."
She spoke quite carelessly and was surprised to see him look at her as
if with sudden suspicion and immediately help himself to the gazelle.
This man was perpetually giving a touch of the whip to her curiosity to
keep it alert. Yet she felt oddly at ease with him. He seemed somehow
part of her impression of the desert, and now, as they sat under the
fig tree between the high earth walls, and at their _al fresco_ meal in
unbroken silence--for since her last remark Androvsky had kept his eyes
down and had not uttered a word--she tried to imagine the desert without
him.
She thought of the gorge of El-Akbara, the cold, the darkness, and then
the sun and the blue country.
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