“Yes, Father,” she returned with a light touch of conscious cynicism. “Surely in this world that which is apt to bring inevitable misery with it must be accounted a fault.” “But can constancy do that?” “Don’t you think so, into a world of ceaseless change?” “Then how shall we reckon truth in a world of lies?” asked the Count. “Is that a fault, too?” “Ask Monsieur Androvsky,” said Domini, quickly. “I obey,” said the Count, looking over at his guest. “Ah, but I am sure I know,” Domini added. “I am sure you think truth a thing we should all avoid in such a world as this. Don’t you, Monsieur?” “If you are sure, Madame, why ask me?” Androvsky replied. There was in his voice a sound that was startling. Suddenly the priest reached out his hand and lifted Bous-Bous on to his knee, and Count Anteoni very lightly and indifferently interposed. “Truth-telling among Arabs becomes a dire necessity to Europeans. One cannot out-lie them, and it doesn’t pay to run second to Orientals. So one learns, with tears, to be sincere. Father Roubier is shocked by my apologia for my own blatant truthfulness.” The priest laughed. “I live so little in what is called ‘the world’ that I’m afraid I’m very ready to take drollery for a serious expression of opinion.” He stroked Bous-Bous’s white back, and added, with a simple geniality that seemed to spring rather from a desire to be kind than from any temperamental source: “But I hope I shall always be able to enjoy innocent fun.” As he spoke his eyes rested on Androvsky’s face, and suddenly he looked grave and put Bous-Bous gently down on the floor. “I’m afraid I must be going,” he said. “Already?” said his host. “I dare not allow myself too much idleness. If once I began to be idle in this climate I should become like an Arab and do nothing all day but sit in the sun.” “As I do. Father, we meet very seldom, but whenever we do I feel myself a cumberer of the earth.” Domini had never before heard him speak with such humbleness. The priest flushed like a boy. “We each serve in our own way,” he said quickly. “The Arab who sits all day in the sun may be heard as a song of praise where He is.” And then he took his leave. This time he did not extend his hand to Androvsky, but only bowed to him, lifting his white helmet. As he went away in the sun with Bous-Bous the three he had left followed him with their eyes. For Androvsky had turned his chair sideways, as if involuntarily. “I shall learn to love Father Roubier,” Domini said. Androvsky moved his seat round again till his back was to the garden, and placed his broad hands palm downward on his knees. “Yes?” said the Count. “He is so transparently good, and he bears his great disappointment so beautifully.” “What great disappointment?” “He longed to become a monk.”