he
went over the deck, down the shallow steps, and was led by Hamza into
the first saloon of the _Loulia_, that room which Baroudi had called his
"den," and which Mrs. Armine had taken as her boudoir. It was lit up.
The door on the far side, beyond the dining-room, was shut. And Mrs.
Armine was standing by the writing-table, holding Isaacson's card in her
hand.

As soon as Isaacson had crossed the threshold, Hamza went out and shut
the door gently.

Mrs. Armine was dressed in black, and on her cheeks were two patches of
vivid red, of red that was artificial and not well put on. Isaacson
believed that she had rushed from the piano to make up her face when she
had learnt of his coming. She looked towards him with hard
interrogation, at the same time lifting her hand.

"Hush, please!" she said, in a low voice. "He doesn't know you are here.
He's asleep."

Her eyes went over his face with a horrible swiftness, and she added, "I
was playing. I have been playing him to sleep."

As if remembering, she held out her hand to Isaacson. He went over to
her softly and took it. As he did so, she made what seemed an
involuntary and almost violent movement to draw it away, checked
herself, and left her hand in his, setting her lips together. He noticed
that in one of her eyelids a pulse was beating. He held her hand with a
gentle, an almost caressing decision, while he said, imitating her
withdrawn way of speaking:

"I'm afraid my coming at this hour has surprised you very much. Do
forgive me, but--"

"What about my note?" she asked.

"May I sit down? What marvellous rugs! What an extraordinary boat this
is!"

"Oh, sit--the divan! Yes, the rugs are fine--of course."

Hastily, and moving without her usual grace, she went to the nearest
divan. He followed her. She sat down, but did not lean back. She had
dropped his card on the floor.

"You read my note! Well, then--?"

It seemed to Isaacson that within his companion there was at this moment
a violent mental struggle going on as to what course she should take,
now, immediately; as if something within her was clamouring for
defiance, something else was pleading for diplomacy. He felt that he was
close to an almost red-hot violence, and wondered intensely whether it
was going to have its way. He wondered, but he did not care. For he knew
that nothing his companion did could change his inward decision. And
even in a moment that was like a black thing lit up by tragic fires