Batouch obeyed. Her foot just touched his hand and she was in the saddle. Androvsky sprang forward on to the pavement. His eyes were blazing with anxiety. She saw it and laughed gaily. “Oh, he’s not vicious,” she said. “And vice is the only thing that’s dangerous. His mouth is perfect, but he’s nervous and wants handling. I’ll just take him up the gardens and back.” She had been reining him in. Now she let him go, and galloped up the straight track between the palms towards the station. The priest had come out into his little garden with Bous-Bous, and leaned over his brushwood fence to look after her. Bous-Bous barked in a light soprano. The Arab boys jumped on their bare toes, and one of them, who was a bootblack, waved his board over his shaven head. The Arab waiter smiled as if with satisfaction at beholding perfect competence. But Androvsky stood quite still looking down the dusty road at the diminishing forms of horse and rider, and when they disappeared, leaving behind them a light cloud of sand films whirling in the sun, he sighed heavily and dropped his chin on his chest as if fatigued. “I can get a horse for Monsieur too. Would Monsieur like to have a horse?” It was the poet’s amply seductive voice. Androvsky started. “I don’t ride,” he said curtly. “I will teach Monsieur. I am the best teacher in Beni-Mora. In three lessons Monsieur will--” “I don’t ride, I tell you.” Androvsky was looking angry. He stepped out into the road. Bous-Bous, who was now observing Nature at the priest’s garden gate, emerged with some sprightliness and trotted towards him, evidently with the intention of making his acquaintance. Coming up to him the little dog raised his head and uttered a short bark, at the same time wagging his tail in a kindly, though not effusive manner. Androvsky looked down, bent quickly and patted him, as only a man really fond of animals and accustomed to them knows how to pat. Bous-Bous was openly gratified. He began to wriggle affectionately. The priest in his garden smiled. Androvsky had not seen him and went on playing with the dog, who now made preparations to lie down on his curly back in the road in the hope of being tickled, a process he was an amateur of. Still smiling, and with a friendly look on his face, the priest came out of his garden and approached the playmates. “Good morning, M’sieur,” he said politely, raising his hat. “I see you like dogs.” Androvsky lifted himself up, leaving Bous-Bous in a prayerful attitude, his paws raised devoutly towards the heavens. When he saw that it was the priest who had addressed him his face changed, hardened to grimness, and his lips trembled slightly. “That’s my little dog,” the priest continued in a gentle voice. “He has evidently taken a great fancy to you.” Batouch was watching Androvsky under the arcade, and noted the sudden change in his expression and his whole bearing.