Even our scoundrel was puzzled. “In my house, when my wife behave bad, I beat her,” he said to me; “when I behave bad she scratch my face.” But there it was--we had no walls; Hélène Radolin could not be beaten, Weymouth could not have his face scratched--most awkward. Things come to an end, and I never breathed more freely than when Mena House delivered us from that frightful close companionship. As if by common consent, we dined at separate tables. After dinner I said to Weymouth: “Come up and see the Sphinx by moonlight.” He came, still in his dream. We reached the Sphinx in silence, and sat down over against her on the sand. At last I said: “What are you going to do now, old man?” “I can’t leave her.” It was as if we had discussed the thing a dozen times already. “But you have to be back on the twentieth?” “I know.” “My dear fellow, it’s ruination. And Jessie?” “She must do what she likes.” “This is madness, Frank!” “Perhaps. I can’t go; that’s all.” “What about _her_?” “I don’t know. I only know that where she goes I must.” I just sat staring at the blunt shadow of the Sphinx’s broken profile on the moonlit sand. The strange, actionless, desert love-dream was at an end! Something definite--horrible, perhaps--must happen now! And I stammered out: “For God’s sake, old boy, think of your wife, your work, yourself--be reasonable! It isn’t worth it, really!” “Perhaps not. This has nothing to do with reason.” From a master at an English Public School the remark appeared to me fantastic. And, suddenly, he got up, as if he had been bitten. He was realising suddenly the difference that walls make. His face had a tortured look. The woman he loved, walled up with the man she had married! Behind us the desert, hundreds of miles of clean, savage sand, and in it we humans--tame and spiritual! Before us walls, and we humans--savage, carnal again! Queer! I doubt if he saw the irony; but he left me sitting there and went hurrying back to the hotel. I stayed on a little with the riddle of the Ages, feeling it simple compared with this riddle of the moment. Then I followed him down. Would it resolve itself in terms of l. s. d.? After all, these four people had to live--could they afford to play fast and loose with the realities? Hélène Radolin had no money; Weymouth his mastership and a few hundreds saved; Jessie Weymouth a retired Colonel for a father; Radolin his banking partnership. A night of walls had its effect. Radolin took his wife back to Heliopolis next day. The Weymouths remained at Mena House; in three days they were due to sail. I well remember thinking: ‘There, you see, it doesn’t do to exaggerate. This was a desert mirage and will pass like one. People are not struck by lightning!’ But in a mood of morbid curiosity I went out to Heliopolis.