Androvsky
followed her after an instant of hesitation.
"Do smoke," she said.
He lit a small cigar with difficulty. She did not wish to watch him,
but she could not help glancing at him once or twice, and the conviction
came to her that he was unaccustomed to smoking. She lit a cigarette,
and saw him look at her with a sort of horrified surprise which changed
to staring interest. There was more boy, more child in this man than
in any man she had ever known. Yet at moments she felt as if he
had penetrated more profoundly into the dark and winding valleys of
experience than all the men of her acquaintance.
"Monsieur Androvsky," she said, looking at the slow waters of the stream
slipping by towards the hidden gardens, "is the desert new to you?"
She longed to know.
"Yes, Madame."
"I thought perhaps--I wondered a little whether you had travelled in it
already."
"No, Madame. I saw it for the first time the day before yesterday."
"When I did."
"Yes."
So they had entered it for the first time together. She was silent,
watching the pale smoke curl up through the shade and out into the glare
of the sun, the lizards creeping over the hot earth, the flies circling
beneath the lofty walls, the palm trees looking over into this garden
from the gardens all around, gardens belonging to Eastern people, born
here, and who would probably die here, and go to dust among the roots of
the palms.
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