The words sounded like a defiance flung at the two Catholics, and for a moment Domini thought that Father Roubier was going to treat them as a challenge, for he lifted his head and there was a flash of sudden fire in his eyes. But he only said, turning to the Count: “I think Mademoiselle and I shall find our little Ramadan a very easy business. I once breakfasted with you on a Friday--two years ago it was, I think--and I have not forgotten the banquet you gave me.” Domini felt as if the priest had snubbed Androvsky, as a saint might snub, without knowing that he did so. She was angry with Androvsky, and yet she was full of pity for him. Why could he not meet courtesy with graciousness? There was something almost inhuman in his demeanour. To-day he had returned to his worst self, to the man who had twice treated her with brutal rudeness. “Do the Arabs really keep Ramadan strictly?” she asked, looking away from Androvsky. “Very,” said Father Roubier. “Although, of course, I am not in sympathy with their religion, I have often been moved by their adherence to its rules. There is something very grand in the human heart deliberately taking upon itself the yoke of discipline.” “Islam--the very word means the surrender of the human will to the will of God,” said Count Anteoni. “That word and its meaning lie like the shadow of a commanding hand on the soul of every Arab, even of the absinthe-drinking renegades one sees here and there who have caught the vices of their conquerors. In the greatest scoundrel that the Prophet’s robe covers there is an abiding and acute sense of necessary surrender. The Arabs, at any rate, do not buzz against their Creator, like midges raging at the sun in whose beams they are dancing.” “No,” assented the priest. “At least in that respect they are superior to many who call themselves Christians. Their pride is immense, but it never makes itself ridiculous.” “You mean by trying to defy the Divine Will?” said Domini. “Exactly, Mademoiselle.” She thought of her dead father. The servants stole round the table, handing various dishes noiselessly. One of them, at this moment, poured red wine into Androvsky’s glass. He uttered a low exclamation that sounded like the beginning of a protest hastily checked. “You prefer white wine?” said Count Anteoni. “No, thank you, Monsieur.” He lifted the glass to his lips and drained it. “Are you a judge of wine?” added the Count. “That is made from my own grapes. I have vineyards near Tunis.” “It is excellent,” said Androvsky.