"You will let me return in a moment to escort you to the
camp."
"Thank you."
"Will you permit me--my name is De Trevignac."
"And mine is Madame Androvsky."
"Russian!" the officer said. "The alliance in the desert! Vive la
Russie!"
She laughed.
"That is for my husband, for I am English."
"Vive l'Angleterre!" he said.
The two soldier echoed his words impulsively, lifting up in the
gathering darkness hoarse voices.
"Vive l'Angleterre!"
"Thank you, thank you," she said. "Now, Monsieur, please don't let me
keep you."
"I shall be back directly," the officer replied.
And he turned and went into the tower, while the soldiers rode round to
the court, tugging at the cords of the led mules.
Domini waited for the return of Marelle. Her mood had changed. A glow of
cordial humanity chased away her melancholy. The hostess that lurks in
every woman--that housewife-hostess sense which goes hand-in-hand with
the mother sense--was alive in her. She was keenly anxious to play the
good fairy simply, unostentatiously, to these exhausted men who had come
to Mogar out of the jaws of Death, to see their weary faces shine under
the influence of repose and good cheer.
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