Really, he had warned her against Androvsky. There were two men of very different types. One was unworldly as a child. The other knew the world. Neither of them had any acquaintance with Androvsky’s history, and both had warned her. It was instinct then that had spoken in them, telling them that he was a man to be shunned, perhaps feared. And her own instinct? What had it said? What did it say? For a long time she remained in the church. But she could not think clearly, reason calmly, or even pray passionately. For a vagueness had come into her mind like the vagueness of twilight that filled the space beneath the starry roof, softening the crudeness of the ornaments, the garish colours of the plaster saints. It seemed to her that her thoughts and feelings lost their outlines, that she watched them fading like the shrouded forms of Arabs fading in the tunnels of Mimosa. But as they vanished surely they whispered, “That which is written is written.” The mosques of Islam echoed these words, and surely this little church that bravely stood among them. “That which is written is written.” Domini rose from her knees, hid the wooden cross once more in her breast, and went out into the evening. As she left the church door something occurred which struck the vagueness from her. She came upon Androvsky and the priest. They were standing together at the latter’s gate, which he was in the act of opening to an accompaniment of joyous barking from Bous-Bous. Both men looked strongly expressive, as if both had been making an effort of some kind. She stopped in the twilight to speak to them. “Monsieur Androvsky has kindly been paying me a visit,” said Father Roubier. “I am glad,” Domini said. “We ought all to be friends here.” There was a perceptible pause. Then Androvsky lifted his hat. “Good-evening, Madame,” he said. “Good-evening, Father.” And he walked away quickly. The priest looked after him and sighed profoundly. “Oh, Madame!” he exclaimed, as if impelled to liberate his mind to someone, “what is the matter with that man? What is the matter?” He stared fixedly into the twilight after Androvsky’s retreating form. “With Monsieur Androvsky?” She spoke quietly, but her mind was full of apprehension, and she looked searchingly at the priest. “Yes. What can it be?” “But--I don’t understand.” “Why did he come to see me?” “I asked him to come.” She blurted out the words without knowing why, only feeling that she must speak the truth. “You asked him!” “Yes. I wanted you to be friends--and I thought perhaps you might----” “Yes?” “I wanted you to be friends.” She repeated it almost stubbornly.