. ."

Hadassah, oddly enough, finished his quotation from "Pippa Passes":
"You want to give them eyes to see that

"'The year's at the Spring,
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hillside's dew-pearled:
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in His heaven--
All's right with the world!'"

Michael Ireton suggested that he should go off for a time into the
desert and find himself. "There's nothing else so helpful," he said.
"I've tried it." Hadassah's eyes met her husband's. She understood;
she remembered.

And so Michael Amory left them strengthened and helped, not so much by
their advice as by their understanding. Hadassah had charmed him, as
she charmed everyone who met her. Her happiness as the wife of the
Englishman who had scorned the gossiping tongues of Cairo by marrying
her, and her pride in the young Nicholas, their son, who was just
learning to walk, made Michael Amory a little envious. Michael
Ireton's home and life seemed almost ideal. This wealthy, happy couple
lived in the world and yet not for the world; they had discovered the
true meaning of life.

Michael's thoughts were brimful of Hadassah and her husband, her beauty
and the romance of their marriage, the details of which were familiar
to him, as he pushed his way through the labyrinth of native streets in
mediaeval Cairo.

After the silence of the desert, the noise was terrific--the shouts of
the water-carriers, the yells of the native drivers of the swaying
cabs, as they dashed at a reckless pace through the struggling and
idling crowds. It was the most crowded hour of the day; the native
town was wide awake. Camels laden with immense burdens of sugar-canes
brushed the foot passengers almost off the narrow sideway; small boys,
with large black eyes and small white _takiyehs_, darted in and out
with brass trays piled high with little enamelled glass bowls.

Michael longed to close his ears with his fingers, but had he attempted
to do so, a donkey, carrying terracotta water-jars of an ancient and
unpractical shape, or a portly, high-stomached Turk would assuredly
have robbed him of his balance.

He drifted on in a semi-conscious state of all that was going on around
him, hating the noise, but enjoying every now and then the feast of
colour which some group of strangely-mixed races presented. More than
once, in the midst of all this noise and clamour, he saw a devout
Moslem alone wit