When he had finished speaking, she knew that Hamza would accompany them; she knew that Baroudi had ordered that Hamza was to come.

“We will see later on,” she said, as if she had a will in this matter.

She looked at her watch.

“It’s time to start.”

“The felucca him ready,” remarked Ibrahim.  “This night the Loulia sailin’; this night the Loulia he go to Armant.”

Mrs. Armine frowned.  Armant—­Esneh—­Kom Ombos—­and then Aswan!  The arbitrariness of her nature was going to be scourged with scorpions by fate, it seemed.  How was she to endure that scourging?  But—­there was to-day.  When was she going to learn really to live for the day?  What a fool she was!  Still frowning, and without saying another word, she went upstairs quickly to dress.

It was past midnight when she returned to the villa.  There was no moon; wind was blowing fiercely, lashing the Nile into waves that were edged with foam, and whirling grains of sand stripped away from the desert over the prairies and gardens of Luxor.  The stars were blotted out, and the night was cold and intensely dark.  She held on tightly to Ibrahim’s arm as she struggled up the bank from the river, and almost felt her way to the house, from which only two lights gleamed faintly.  The French windows of the drawing-room were locked, and they went round the house to the front door.  As Ibrahim put up his hand to ring the bell, a sudden fear came to Mrs. Armine.  Suppose Nigel had started earlier from Cairo than he had intended?  Suppose he had returned and was then in the house?  She caught Ibrahim’s hand.  He said something which was carried away and lost to her in the wind.  She dropped his hand; he rang, and in a moment the door was opened by Hassan.

“Ask him if—­if anything has happened, if there is any message, anything for me!” she said to Ibrahim directly she was in the house.

Ibrahim spoke to Hassan in Arabic.

“My lady, he says there is nothin’.”

“Very well.  I’ll go to bed.  Good night, Ibrahim.”

And she went upstairs.

When she was in her bedroom she shut the door and sat down just as she was, with a veil over her face, the collar of her dust-coat turned up, her shining hair dishevelled by the angry hands of the gale.  A lamp was burning on the dressing-table, upon which, very oddly arranged, stood a number of silver things, brushes, bottles, boxes, which were usually in the dressing-room.  They were set out in a sort of elaborate and very fantastic pattern, which recalled to her sharply a fact.  She had no longer a maid.  She had got rid of Marie, who had left Luxor on the previous day, neither tearful nor, apparently, angry, but looking sharp, greedy, and half-admiringly inquisitive to the very last.  Mrs. Armine had come to her two days before holding an open letter from Nigel, and had announced to her his decision that a lady’s maid in the Fayyum would be an impossibility, and