in her hair.

As she came into the room, for a moment Nigel had the impression that
she was a stranger coming in. Why was that? His mind repeated the
question, and he gazed at her with intensity, seeking the reason of his
impression. She was looking strangely, abnormally fair. Had she again,
despite the conversation of the morning, "done something" to her face?
Was its whiteness whiter than usual? Or were her lips a little redder?
Or--he did not know what she had done, whether, indeed, she had done
anything--but he felt troubled, ill at ease. He felt a longing to be
alone with Ruby, to make her forgive him for having hurt her in the
morning. He hated the barrier between them, and he felt that he had
created it by his disbelief in her. Women are always more sensitive than
men, and who is more sensitive than the emerging Magdalen, encompassed
by disbelief, by irony, by wonder? He felt that in the morning he had
been radically false to himself, that by his lapse from a high ideal of
conduct he had struck a heavy blow upon a trembling virtue which had
been gathering its courage to venture forth into the light.

During the dinner, almost everything, every look, tone, gesture,
attitude, that was expressive of Ruby, confirmed him in self-rebuke. She
was certainly changed. The rather weary and wistful woman who had stayed
alone in the garden when he went to the dahabeeyah had given place to a
woman more resolute, brilliant, animated--a woman who could hold her
own, who could be daring, almost defiant, and a woman who could pain him
in return, perhaps, for the pain he had inflicted on her. The dinner was
quite good. Their Nubian cook had been trained in a big hotel, and Mrs.
Armine had nothing to apologize for. Baroudi politely praised the
cooking. Yet she felt that behind his praise there lurked immeasurable
reservations, and she remembered the time when her _chef_ was the most
famous in London, a marvel who had been bribed by a millionaire lover of
hers to leave the service of a royalty to bring his gift to her. She
mentioned this fact to Baroudi. It was a vulgar thing to do, and at
heart she was not vulgar; but she was prompted by two desires. She felt
in her guest the Oriental's curious and almost romantic admiration of
riches, and wished to draw this admiration towards herself; and she
wanted to inflict some more punishment on Nigel.

"You seem to be something of an epicure, Mahmoud Baroudi," she said. "I
suppose you hav