yes were wistful, and Victoria wondered why, because she was
so happy that she felt as if life had been set to music. She had hoped
that he would be happy too, when Nevill's danger was over, and he had
time to think of himself--perhaps, too, of her.

"Yes," she said, "let's talk in the garden, when it's cooler. I love
being in gardens, don't you? Everything that happens seems more
beautiful."

Stephen remembered how lovely he had thought her in the lily garden at
Algiers. He was almost glad that they were not to have this talk there;
for the memory of it was too perfect to mar with sadness.

"I'm going to put Saidee to sleep," she went on. "You may laugh, but
truly I can. When I was a little girl, she used to like me to stroke her
hair if her head ached, and she would always fall asleep. And once she's
asleep I shan't dare move, or she'll wake up. She has such happy dreams
now, and they're sure to come true. Shall I come to you about half-past
five?"

"I'll be waiting," said Stephen.

It was the usual garden of a villa in the neighbourhood of a desert
town, but Stephen had never seen one like it, except that of the Caid,
in Bou-Saada. There were the rounded paths of hard sand, the colour of
pinkish gold in the dappling shadows of date palms and magnolias, and
there were rills of running water that whispered and gurgled as they
bathed the dark roots of the trees. No grass grew in the garden, and the
flowers were not planted in beds or borders. Plants and trees sprang out
of the sand, and such flowers as there were--roses, and pomegranate
blossoms, hibiscus, and passion flowers--climbed, and rambled, and
pushed, and hung in heavy drapery, as best they could without attention
or guidance. But one of the principal paths led to a kind of arbour, or
temple, where long ago palms had been planted in a ring, and had formed
a high green dome, through which, even at noon, the light filtered as if
through a dome of emerald. Underneath, the pavement of gold was hard and
smooth, and in the centre whispered a tiny fountain ornamented with old
Algerian tiles. It trickled rather than played, but its delicate music
was soothing and sweet as a murmured lullaby; and from the shaded seat
beside it there was a glimpse between tree trunks of the burning desert
gold.

On this wooden seat by the fountain Stephen waited for Victoria, and
saw her coming to him, along the straight path that led to the round
point. She wore a white dress whi