fierce—­that the other, over which she was presiding, should be a success, too.  But why was Androvsky so strange with other men?  Why did he seem to become almost a different human being directly he was brought into any close contact with his kind?  Was it shyness?  Had he a profound hatred of all society?  She remembered Count Anteoni’s luncheon and the distress Androvsky had caused her by his cold embarrassment, his unwillingness to join in conversation on that occasion.  But then he was only her friend.  Now he was her husband.  She longed for him to show himself at his best.  That he was not a man of the world she knew.  Had he not told her of his simple upbringing in El Kreir, a remote village of Tunisia, by a mother who had been left in poverty after the death of his father, a Russian who had come to Africa to make a fortune by vine-growing, and who had had his hopes blasted by three years of drought and by the visitation of the dreaded phylloxera?  Had he not told her of his own hard work on the rich uplands among the Spanish workmen, of how he had toiled early and late in all kinds of weather, not for himself, but for a company that drew a fortune from the land and gave him a bare livelihood?  Till she met him he had never travelled—­he had never seen almost anything of life.  A legacy from a relative had at last enabled him to have some freedom and to gratify a man’s natural taste for change.  And, strangely, perhaps, he had come first to the desert.  She could not—­she did not—­expect him to show the sort of easy cultivation that a man acquires only by long contact with all sorts and conditions of men and women.  But she knew that he was not only full of fire and feeling—­a man with a great temperament, but also that he was a man who had found time to study, whose mind was not empty.  He was a man who had thought profoundly.  She knew this, although even with her, even in the great intimacy that is born of a great mutual passion, she knew him for a man of naturally deep reserve, who could not perhaps speak all his thoughts to anyone, even to the woman he loved.  And knowing this, she felt a fighting temper rise up in her.  She resolved to use her will upon this man who loved her, to force him to show his best side to the guest who had come to them out of the terror of the dunes.  She would be obstinate for him.

Her lips went down a little at the corners.  De Trevignac glanced at her above his soup-plate, and then at Androvsky.  He was a man who had seen much of society, and who divined at once the gulf that must have separated the kind of life led in the past by his hostess from the kind of life led by his host.  Such gulfs, he knew, are bridged with difficulty.  In this case a great love must have been the bridge.  His interest in these two people, encountered by him in the desolation of the wastes, and when all his emotions had been roused by the nearness of peril, would have been deep in any case.  But there was something that made it extraordinary, something connected with Androvsky.  It seemed to him that he had seen, perhaps known Androvsky at some time in his life.  Yet Androvsky’s face was not familiar to him.  He could not yet tell from what he drew this impression, but it was strong.  He searched his memory.