She joined him, concealing her reluctance to leave Androvsky with the priest, and walked beside him down the path, preceded by Bous-Bous. “Is my _fete_ going to be a failure?” he murmured. She did not reply. Her heart was full of vexation, almost of bitterness. She felt angry with Count Anteoni, with Androvsky, with herself. She almost felt angry with poor Father Roubier. “Forgive me! do forgive me!” the Count whispered. “I meant no harm.” She forced herself to smile, but the silence behind them, where the two men were following, oppressed her. If only Androvsky would speak! He had not said one word since they were all together. Suddenly she turned her head and said: “Did you ever see such palms, Monsieur Androvsky? Aren’t they magnificent?” Her voice was challenging, imperative. It commanded him to rouse himself, to speak, as a touch of the lash commands a horse to quicken his pace. Androvsky raised his head, which had been sunk on his breast as he walked. “Palms!” he said confusedly. “Yes, they are wonderful.” “You care for trees?” asked the Count, following Domini’s lead and speaking with a definite intention to force a conversation. “Yes, Monsieur, certainly.” “I have some wonderful fellows here. After _dejeuner_ you must let me show them to you. I spent years in collecting my children and teaching them to live rightly in the desert.” Very naturally, while he spoke, he had joined Androvsky, and now walked on with him, pointing out the different varieties of trees. Domini was conscious of a sense of relief and of a strong feeling of gratitude to their host. Following upon the gratitude came a less pleasant consciousness of Androvsky’s lack of good breeding. He was certainly not a man of the world, whatever he might be. To-day, perhaps absurdly, she felt responsible for him, and as if he owed it to her to bear himself bravely and govern his dislikes if they clashed with the feelings of his companions. She longed hotly for him to make a good impression, and, when her eyes met Father Roubier’s, was almost moved to ask his pardon for Androvsky’s rudeness. But the Father seemed unconscious of it, and began to speak about the splendour of the African vegetation. “Does not its luxuriance surprise you after England?” he said. “No,” she replied bluntly. “Ever since I have been in Africa I have felt that I was in a land of passionate growth.” “But--the desert?” he replied with a gesture towards the long flats of the Sahara, which were still visible between the trees. “I should find it there too,” she answered. “There, perhaps, most of all.” He looked at her with a gentle wonder. She did not explain that she was no longer thinking of growth in Nature.