"When you asked who it was," he murmured, "it occurred to me that you did not know my name--nor I yours. My own," he added, as she stood unresponsive, "is Ryder--Jack Ryder. You can always get a letter to me at the Agricultural Bank. That is the quickest way. My friend, McLean there, always knows where my diggings are. When in Cairo I stop with him; or at the Rossmore House." "I shall not need to get a letter to you, monsieur," she told him stiffly. "But, if you did, how would you sign it?" "Aimée.... That is French--after my mother." "Aimée. That means Beloved, doesn't it?" She was silent. Surely, she thought with a swelling heart, if he were sorry he would tell her now. It was the moment for contrition, for appeasement, for whatever explanation his American ways might have. She had thought about him all night. She had given his declaration a hundred forms--but always it had been a declaration. Now she waited, flagellating her sensitive pride. Ryder was conscious of the constraint tightening about them and in the dragging pause an uncomfortable common sense had time to put its disconcerting questions. What did it matter what her name meant? What in the world was he doing here?.... And what did she think she was doing here?... Not that he wanted her to go.... And suddenly it didn't matter--whatever they thought. It was enough that they were together in that still, soft, jasmine-scented dark. He was breathing quickly; his pulses were beating; he had a feeling of strange, heady delight. The crescent moon was up at last, sailing clear of the house tops, sending its bright rays through the filigree of tall shrubs. A finger of light edged the contour of her shrouded head. He bent a little closer. "Won't you," he said softly, "take off your veil for me?" Appalled, she clasped it to her. He had no idea in the world of the shock of that request. It would be only a faint parallel of its impropriety to suggest to Jinny Jeffries that she discard her frock. Even Ryder's acquaintance with Egypt could not tell him how that swift, confident eagerness of his could startle and affront. "I want to see you so very much," he was murmuring, and met the chill disdain of her retort, "But it is not for you to see my face, monsieur!" "Who is to see it?" he demanded. "Who but the man I am to marry," she gave distinctly back. The word hit him like stone. He was conscious of a shock. Did she intend to rebuke--or to imply--to question his intention? The steadiness of her low voice suggested a certain steadiness of design.... He had heard of girls who knew their own minds ... girls with unexpectedly far-sighted vision.... Perhaps, poor child, she looked upon him as romantic escape from all that was restrictive in her life. Secluded women go fast--when they start. The devil take him for that kiss! A somewhat set look upon his thin face guarded the fluctuations of his soul, but the blood rose strongly under his dark skin.