Her face brought the Desert

back into his thoughts. And with it came—the sand.

Here was the flash. The sight of her restored the peace and

splendour he had left behind him in his Desert camps. The rest, of

course, was what his imagination constructed upon this slender basis.

Only,—not all of it was imagination.

Now, Henriot knew little enough of women, and had no pose of

“understanding” them. His experience was of the slightest; the love and

veneration felt for his own mother had set the entire sex upon the

heights. His affairs with women, if so they may be called, had been

transient—all but those of early youth, which having never known the

devastating test of fulfilment, still remained ideal and superb. There

was unconscious humour in his attitude—from a distance; for he

regarded women with wonder and respect, as puzzles that sweetened but

complicated life, might even endanger it. He certainly was not a

marrying man! But now, as he felt the presence of this woman so

deliberately possess him, there came over him two clear, strong

messages, each vivid with certainty. One was that banal suggestion of

familiarity claimed by lovers and the like—he had often heard of

it—“I have known that woman before; I have met her ages ago somewhere;

she is strangely familiar to me”; and the other, growing out of it

almost: “Have nothing to do with her; she will bring you trouble and

confusion; avoid her, and be warned”:—in fact, a distinct

presentiment.

Yet, although Henriot dismissed both impressions as having no shred

of evidence to justify them, the original clear judgment, as he studied

her extraordinary countenance, persisted through all denials. The

familiarity, and the presentiment, remained. There also remained this

other—an enormous imaginative leap!—that she could teach him “Egypt.”

He watched her carefully, in a sense fascinated. He could only

describe the face as black, so dark it was with the darkness of great

age. Elderly was the obvious, natural word; but elderly described the

features only. The expression of the face wore centuries. Nor was it

merely the coal-black eyes that betrayed an ancient, age-travelled soul

behind them. The entire presentment mysteriously conveyed it. This

woman’s heart knew long-forgotten things—the thought kept beating up

against him. There were cheek-bones, oddly high, that made him think

involuntarily of the well-advertised Pharaoh, Ramases; a square, deep

jaw; and an aquiline nose that gave the final touch of power. For the

power undeniably was there, and while the general effect had grimness

in it, there was neither harshness nor any forbidding touch about it.

There was an implacable sternness in the set of lips and jaw, and, most

curious of all, the eyelids over the steady eyes of black were level as

a ruler. This level framing made the woman’s stare remarkable beyond

description. Henriot thought of an idol carved in stone, stone hard and

black, with eyes that stared across the sand into a world of things

non-human, very far away, forgotten of men. The face was finely ugly.

This strange dark beauty flashed flame about it.

And, as the way ever was with him, Henriot next fell to constructing

the possible lives of herself and her companion, though without much

success. Imagination soon stopped dead. She was not old enough to be

Vance’s mother, and assuredly she was not his wife. His interest was

more than merely piqued—it was puzzled uncommonly. What was the

contrast that made the man seem beside her—vile? Whence came, too, the

impression that she exercised some strong authority, though never

directly exercised, that held him at her mercy? How did he guess that

the man resented it, yet did not dare opposed, and that, apparently

acquiescing good-humouredly, his will was deliberately held in

abeyance, and that he waited sulkily, biding his time? There was

furtiveness in every gesture and expression. A hidden motive lurked in

him; unworthiness somewhere; he was determined yet ashamed. He watched

her ceaselessly and with such uncanny closeness.

Henriot imagined he divined all this. He leaped to the guess that

his expenses were being paid. A good deal more was being paid besides.

She was a rich relation, from whom he had expectations; he was serving

his seven years, ashamed of his servitude, ever calculating

escape—but, perhaps, no ordinary escape.