She heard her companions entering the room and turned round. At that moment her heart was swept by an emotion almost of hatred to Androvsky. Because of it she smiled. A forced gaiety dawned in her. She sat down on one of the low divans, and, as she asked Count Anteoni for a cigarette and lit it, she thought, “How shall I punish him?” That lie, not even told to her and about so slight a matter, seemed to her an attack which she resented and must return. Not for a moment did she ask herself if she were reasonable. A voice within her said, “I will not be lied to, I will not even bear a lie told to another in my presence by this man.” And the voice was imperious. Count Anteoni remained beside her, smoking a cigar. Father Roubier took a seat by the little table in front of her. But Androvsky went over to the door she had just left, and stood, as she had, looking out into the sunshine. Bous-Bous followed him, and snuffed affectionately round his feet, trying to gain his attention. “My little dog seems very fond of your friend,” the priest said to Domini. “My friend!” “Monsieur Androvsky.” She lowered her voice. “He is only a travelling acquaintance. I know nothing of him.” The priest looked gently surprised and Count Anteoni blew forth a fragrant cloud of smoke. “He seems a remarkable man,” the priest said mildly. “Do you think so?” She began to speak to Count Anteoni about some absurdity of Batouch, forcing her mind into a light and frivolous mood, and he echoed her tone with a clever obedience for which secretly she blessed him. In a moment they were laughing together with apparent merriment, and Father Roubier smiled innocently at their light-heartedness, believing in it sincerely. But Androvsky suddenly turned around with a dark and morose countenance. “Come in out of the sunshine,” said the Count. “It is too strong. Try this chair. Coffee will be--ah, here it is!” Two servants appeared, carrying it. “Thank you, Monsieur,” Androvsky said with reluctant courtesy. He came towards them with determination and sat down, drawing forward his chair till he was facing Domini. Directly he was quiet Bous-Bous sprang upon his knee and lay down hastily, blinking his eyes, which were almost concealed by hair, and heaving a sigh which made the priest look kindly at him, even while he said deprecatingly: “Bous-Bous! Bous-Bous! Little rascal, little pig--down, down!” “Oh, leave him, Monsieur!” muttered Androvsky. “It’s all the same to me.” “He really has no shame where his heart is concerned.” “Arab!” said the Count. “He has learnt it in Beni-Mora.” “Perhaps he has taken lessons from Larbi,” said Domini. “Hark! He is playing to-day. For whom?” “I never ask now,” said the Count. “The name changes so often.” “Constancy is not an Arab fault?” Domini asked. “You say ‘fault,’ Madame,” interposed the priest.