“I wonder whether you recognise that there are obstacles which the human will can’t negotiate?” “I could scarcely live where I do without recognising that the grains of sand are often driven by the wind. But when there is no wind!” “They lie still?” “And are the desert. I want to have a strange experience.” “What?” “A _fete_ in my garden.” “A fantasia?” “Something far more banal. A lunch party, a _dejeuner_. Will you honour me?” “By breakfasting with you? Yes, of course. Thank you.” “And will you bring--the second sun worshipper?” She looked into the Count’s small, shining eyes. “Monsieur Androvsky?” “If that is his name. I can send him an invitation, of course. But that’s rather formal, and I don’t think he is formal.” “On what day do you ask us?” “Any day--Friday.” “And why do you ask us?” “I wish to overcome this indifference to my garden. It hurts me, not only in my pride, but in my affections.” The whole thing had been like a sort of serious game. Domini had not said that she would convey the odd invitation; but when she was alone, and thought of the way in which Count Anteoni had said “Persuade him,” she knew she would, and she meant Androvsky to accept it. This was an opportunity of seeing him in company with another man, a man of the world, who had read, travelled, thought, and doubtless lived. She asked him that evening, and saw the red, that came as it comes in a boy’s face, mount to his forehead. “Everybody who comes to Beni-Mora comes to see the garden,” she said before he could reply. “Count Anteoni is half angry with you for being an exception.” “But--but, Madame, how can Monsieur the Count know that I am here? I have not seen him.” “He knows there is a second traveller, and he’s a hospitable man. Monsieur Androvsky, I want you to come; I want you to see the garden.” “It is very kind of you, Madame.” The reluctance in his voice was extreme. Yet he did not like to say no. While he hesitated, Domini continued: “You remember when I asked you to ride?” “Yes, Madame.” “That was new to you. Well, it has given you pleasure, hasn’t it?” “Yes, Madame.” “So will the garden. I want to put another pleasure into your life.” She had begun to speak with the light persuasiveness of a woman of the world--wishing to overcome a man’s diffidence or obstinacy, but while she said the words she felt a sudden earnestness rush over her. It went into the voice, and surely smote upon him like a gust of the hot wind that sometimes blows out of the desert. “I shall come, Madame,” he said quickly. “Friday. I may be in the garden in the morning. I’ll meet you at the gate at half-past twelve.” “Friday?” he said. Already he seemed to be wavering in his acceptance. Domini did not stay with him any longer. “I’m glad,” she said in a finishing tone. And she went away.