Oh, here is my husband."
Androvsky stood in the tent door, looking in upon them with startled,
scrutinising eyes. He had come over the deep sand without noise. Neither
Domini nor the priest had heard a footstep. The priest got up from his
chair and bowed genially.
"Good-evening, Monsieur," he said, not waiting for any introduction. "I
am the Aumonier of Amara, and----"
He paused in the full flow of his talk. Androvsky's eyes had wandered
from his face to the table, upon which stood the coffee, the liqueur,
and the other things brought by Ouardi. It was evident even to the
self-centred priest that his host was not listening to him. There was a
moment's awkward pause. Then Domini said:
"Boris, Monsieur l'Aumonier!"
She did not speak loudly, but with an intention that recalled the mind
of her husband. He stepped slowly into the tent and held out his hand in
silence to the priest. As he did so the lamplight fell full upon him.
"Boris, are you ill?" Domini exclaimed.
The priest had taken Androvsky's hand, but with a doubtful air. His
cheerful and confident manner had died away, and his eyes, fixed upon
his host, shone with an astonishment which was mingled with a sort
of boyish glumness.
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