"Will you take a little more of the rose-leaf jelly?" he asked.
"No, no."
She dropped the box. It made a dry sound as it struck the table.
"I must stay at Armant some days. I have to look after my sugar interests there."
"Oh--sugar!" she exclaimed. "My husband may think you do nothing but look after your affairs, but you mustn"t suppose a woman--"
"A woman--what?"
"I knew from the first you loved pleasure."
She took up the fan again.
"From the first? When was that?"
"On the _Hohenzollern_, of course."
"And I--I knew--I knew--"
He paused, smiling at her.
"What did you know?"
"Oh, I can understand something of women--when they permit me. And on the _Hohenzollern_ you permitted me. Did you not?"
"I never spoke to you alone."
"It was not necessary. It was not at all necessary."
"Of course, I know that."
She was burning--her whole body was burning--with retrospective jealousy, and as she looked at him the flame seemed to be fanned, to give out more heat, to scorch her, sear her, more terribly. A man like this, an Eastern, utterly untrammelled, with no public opinion--and at this moment England, in her thought of it, seemed full of public opinion; Puritan England--to condemn him or restrain him, in this climate what must his life have been? And what would his life be?
Something in her shrieked out against his freedom. She felt within her a pain that was almost intolerable; the pain of a no longer young, but forcible, woman, who was still brimful of life, and who was fiercely and physically jealous of a young man over whom she had no rights at all.
Ah, if only she were twenty years younger! But--even now! She leaned her arms carelessly on the table, and managed to glance into the lid of the _boite de beaute_ which he had given her. The expression in the eyes that looked into hers from the lid startled her. Where was her experience? She was ashamed of herself. Crudity was all very well with this man, but--there were limits. She must not pa.s.s them without meaning to do so, without knowing she was doing so. And she had not lived her life since her divorce without discovering that the greatest _faux pas_ a jealous woman can take is to show her jealousy. Husbands of other women had proved that to her up to the hilt, when she had been their refuge.
"Of course! You know much of men."
He spoke with a quiet a.s.surance as of one in complete possession of her past. For the first time the question, "Has he heard of the famous Mrs.
Chepstow? Does he--_know_?" flashed through her mind. It was possible.
For he had been in Europe, to Paris. And he could read English, and perhaps had read many English papers.
"Did you ever hear of some one called "Bella Donna"?" she said, slowly.
Her voice sounded careless, but her eyes were watching him closely.
"Bella Donna! But any beautiful woman may be that."
"Did you ever hear of Mrs. Chepstow?"
"No."
He stared at her, then added:
"Who is it. Does she come to Cairo in the winter?"
She felt certain he had not heard, and was not sure that she was glad.
Her sort of fame might perhaps have attracted him. She wondered and longed to know. She longed to ask him many questions about his thoughts of women. But of course he would not tell her the truth. And men hate to be questioned by women.
"Does she come to Cairo?" he repeated.
"She was there once."
"You are Bella Donna," he said.
"You had to say that."
"Yes, but it is true. You are Bella Donna, but you are not donna onesta."
She did not resent the remark, which was made with an almost nave gravity and directness. She was quite sure that Baroudi would never appreciate a woman because she was honest. Again she longed to hint at her notoriety, at the evil reputation she had acquired, which yet was a sort of fame.
"In--in Europe they often call me Bella Donna," she said.
"In Europe?"
"In England--London."
"They are right. I shall call you Bella Donna here, beside the Nile."
He said it negligently, but something in her rejoiced. Nevertheless, she said, she could not help saying:
"And the full moon?"
"What about her?"
"Is she Bella Donna?"
He half closed his eyes and looked down.
"I don"t ask you if she is _donna onesta_."
He replied: "She is sixteen, and she is a dancing-girl."
"I understand," she said, with an effort.
She shut her lips tightly and was silent, thinking of Nigel"s return, of her departure with him to the Fayyum, while this man, on his luxurious floating home, went on towards the south. She had resolved to live for the day. But when does any jealous woman live for the day? Jealousy hurls itself into the past and into the future, demanding of the one what was and of the other what will be. And--the canvas of a tent would enfold her, would make her prison walls! Why, why had she tied herself?
A month ago, and she was utterly free. She could have gone to the south on the _Loulia_. Her whole body tingled, revolting against the yoke with which her will had burdened it. But when she spoke again her voice was lazy and calm?