“Even if I could go to the Fayyum, I don’t think it would be much good,” he answered.

He had no scruple in stripping her bare of subterfuge.

“I meant that your advice on Egyptian agriculture might be valuable to my husband,” she retorted, with composure.

Something in his glance, in his tone, seemed suddenly to brace her, to restore her.

“Ah! that is true.  Mr. Armeen would take my advice.  In some ways he is not so very English.”

“Then it would be kind to come to the Fayyum and to give him the benefit of your advice.”

He leaned towards her, and said: 

“Bella Donna is not so very subtle!”

“You think subtlety so necessary?” she asked, with a light tinge of irony.  “I really don’t see why.”

His eyes narrowed till they were only slits through which gleamed a yellowish light.

“When is your French maid going?” he asked.

She moved, and sat looking at him for a minute without replying.  Had he read her thought of the morning?

“My maid!” she said at length.  “What do you mean?  Why should she go?”

“When is she going?” he repeated.

The brigand had suddenly reappeared in him.

“What an absurd idea!  I can’t possibly get on without a maid.”

She still acted a careless surprise.  An obscure voice within her—­a voice that she scarcely recognized, whispered to her, “Resist!”

“When is she going?” he said once more, as if he had not heard her.

The man who was working by the shaduf cried out no more.  No more did Mrs. Armine see, at the end of the long and narrow alley, behind the fretwork of shining, pointed leaves, the lateen sails go by.  And the withdrawal of the crying voices and of the gliding sails seemed to leave this orange-garden at the very end of the world.  The golden peace of the noon wrapped it as in a garment, the hem of which was wrought in geranium-red, in shining green, and in yellow turning to gold.  But in this peace she was conscious of the need to struggle if she would dwell in safety.  Soft seemed this garment that was falling gently about her.  But was it not really deadly as a shirt of Nessus, the poison of which would penetrate her limbs, would creep into her very soul?

It was, perhaps, a little thing, this question of the going, or not, of her maid, but she felt that if she resisted his will in this matter she would win a decisive battle, obtain security from a danger impending, whereas if she yielded in this she would be yielding the whole of her will to his.

“I won’t yield!” she said to herself.

And then she looked at the brigand beside her, and something within her, that seemed to be the core of her womanhood, longed intensely to yield.

She had wished to get rid of Marie.  Quite without prompting she had decided that very morning to send Marie away.  Then how unreasonable it would be to refuse to do it just because he, too, wished the girl to go!