e sight of her
pale-brown cheek so close to his, in the persistent strangeness of her
perfume, in the singular cadences of her voice that were always
inspiring new harmonies, and in the caress of her cool, fragile hands
that had drawn him back from death.

"Is it good?"

What he meant was, "Is it good enough to keep you from regrets?"

She understood, pitied him the more, redoubled her tenderness. And
this wan idyll of theirs, as nearly incorporeal as though she were
indeed an ethereal visitor, took on a new pathos which was accentuated
by the withering of the flowers in the garden, the first hints of the
rigor of winter.

He marveled at her self-immolation in this lonely house. He wondered
how long such a state of things could last. Then, summoning back his
new courage, he continued his combat against the unknown rivals, who,
perhaps, had not yet revealed themselves to her, or else had thus far
sent to her only ambiguous and subtle heralds of their coming--a breeze
flavored with the past and promising an imitation of old transports, a
cry of departing birds like a reassurance of the inevitable return, not
only of the spring, but also of natural love.

"What are you reading now?" he would ask her apprehensively; for so
many books were replete with accounts of a different sort of union.

Or, when she had gone to walk through the grounds at sunset, he,
chained to his wheel chair, watched her departing figure with a
sensation of dread, asking himself what thoughts would come to her out
there, under the immense compulsion of the scarlet clouds.

His fears, for lack of any other definite object, often veered toward
her memories.

She rejoined him at dusk, languid from that brief promenade, like those
Eastern women whom Lawrence Teck had once described to her, or like one
who is enervated by a fever stealthily creeping round one at the moment
of tropical twilight. He saw her eyes misty with shadows which
disappeared as she came forward into the lamplight.

"Yes, she had been thinking of him."

He suspected that she thought of "him" also in the night.

"Don't go yet," he would plead, when she came to his bed, into which
Hamoud-bin-Said had tucked him like a child. So she sat down; and the
ray of the night lamp fell across her sensitive lips that had felt the
kisses of "the other." David's thin, romantic, bronzed face, with its
queer comminglement of adolescence and genius, was fortunately in the
shadows cas