when the nomad sleeps under his low-pitched tent, and the gardeners in the oasis cease even from pretending to work among the palms.  From before the well the ground sank to a plain of pale grey sand, which stretched away to a village hard in aspect, as if carved out of bronze and all in one piece.  In the centre of it rose a mosque with a minaret and a number of cupolas, faintly gilded and shining modestly under the fierce rays of the sun.

At the foot of the village the ground was white with saltpetre, which resembled a covering of new-fallen snow.  To right and left of it were isolated groups of palms growing in threes and fours, like trees that had formed themselves into cliques and set careful barriers of sand between themselves and their despised brethren.  Here and there on the grey sand dark patches showed where nomads had pitched their tents.  But there was no movement of human life.  No camels were visible.  No guard dogs barked.  The noon held all things in its golden grip.

“Boris!” Domini said, breaking a long silence.

“Yes, Domini?”

He turned towards her on the rug, stretching his long, thin body lazily as if in supreme physical contentment.

“You know that saying of the Arabs about forgetting everything in the desert?”

“Yes, Domini, I know it.”

“How long shall we stay in this world of forgetfulness?”

He lifted himself up on his elbow quickly, and fixed his eyes on hers.

“How long!”

“Yes.”

“But—­do you wish to leave it?  Are you tired of it?”

There was a note of sharp anxiety in his voice.

“I don’t answer such a question,” she said, smiling at him.

“Ah, then, why do you try to frighten me?”

She put her hand in his.

“How burnt you are!” she said.  “You are like an Arab of the South.”

“Let me become more like one.  There’s health here.”

“And peace, perfect peace.”

He said nothing.  He was looking down now at the sand.

She laid her lips on his warm brown hand.

“There’s all I want here,” she added.

“Let us stay here.”

“But some day we must go back, mustn’t we?”

“Why?”

“Can anything be lifelong—­even our honeymoon?”

“Suppose we choose that it shall be?”

“Can we choose such a thing?  Is anybody allowed to choose to live always quite happily without duties?  Sometimes I wonder.  I love this wandering life so much, I am so happy in it, that I sometimes think it cannot last much longer.”

He began to sift the sand through his fingers swiftly.

“Duties?” he said in a low voice.

“Yes.  Oughtn’t we to do something presently, something besides being happy?”

“What do you mean, Domini?”

“I hardly know, I don’t know.  You tell me.”

There was an urging in her voice, as if she wanted, almost demanded, something of him.