effective, gave a thrill of
pleasure to something within her. They were like trees that were
perfectly dressed. Since the day when she first met Baroudi in the
mountains she had resumed her practice of making up her face. Marie
might be wrong, although Baroudi was not a Frenchman. Today Mrs. Armine
was very glad that she had not trusted completely to Nature. In the
midst of these orange trees she felt in place, and now she lifted her
veil and she spoke to Baroudi.

"What do you call this? Has it a name?"

"It is the Villa Nuit d'Or. I use the word 'villa' in the Italian
sense."

"Oh, of course. Night of gold. Why night?"

"The trees make a sort of darkness round the house."

"The gold I understand."

"Yes, you understand gold."

He stared at her and smiled.

"You understand it as well as I do, but perhaps in a different way," he
said.

"I suppose we understand most things in different ways."

They spoke in French. They always spoke French together now. And Mrs.
Armine preferred this. Somehow she did not care so much for this man
translated into English. She wished she could communicate with him in
Arabic, but she was too lazy to try to learn.

"Don't you think so?" she added.

"I think my way of understanding you is better than Mr. Armeen's way,"
he answered, calmly.

He lit a cigarette.

"What is your way of understanding me, I do not know," he added.

"Do I understand you at all?" she said. "Do you wish me to understand
you?"

Suddenly she seemed to be confronted by the rock, and a sharp irritation
invaded her. It was followed by a feeling colder and very determined.
The long day was before her. She was in a very perfect isolation with
this man. She was a woman who had for years made it her business to
understand men. By understanding them--for what is beauty without any
handmaid of brains?--she had gained fortunes, and squandered them. By
understanding them, when a critical moment had come in her life, she had
secured for herself a husband. It was absurd that a man, who was at
least half child--she thought of the cuckoo-clocks, the gilded
dancing-ball--should baffle her. If only she called upon her powers, she
must be able to turn him inside out like one of her long gloves. She
would do it to-day. And before he had replied to her question she had
left it.

"Who cares for such things on the Nile?" she said.

She laughed.

"At least, what Western woman can care? I do not. I am too drunk with