"I haven't looked yet. I walked with Baroudi on the bank. He's joined his dahabeeyah, and is going up to Armant to see to his affairs in the sugar business up there."
"I believe he only stays till to-morrow or Wednesday. He invited me to go over to his boat and have a look at it this afternoon."
"I told him I'd let him know. Shall I go?"
"I should like to see the boat, but--you see, he's half an Oriental, and perhaps he didn't think it was the proper thing to do, but--"
"He didn't invite me. Why should he? Go, Nigel. You want a man's society sometimes. You mustn't always sit in my pocket. And besides, you're just off to the Fayyûm. I must get accustomed to an occasional lonely hour."
"I shall soon come back. And soon you shall come with me there."
"I love this place," she said. "Are there any letters for me?"
He untied the string of the packet, looked over the contents, and handed her three or four.
"And now run away and read yours," she said. "When you're in my room I can do nothing. You take up all my attention. I'll come down in a few minutes."
When he was in the little drawing-room, he threw the papers carelessly on a table without taking off their wrappers. He had scarcely looked at a paper since he had been in Egypt; he had had other things to do, things that had engrossed him mind and body. Like many men who are informed by a vital enthusiasm, Nigel sometimes lived for a time in blinkers, which shut out from his view completely the world to right and left of him. He could be an almost terribly concentrated man. And since he had been in Egypt he had been concentrated on his wife, and on his own life in relation to her. The affairs of the nations had not troubled him. He had read his letters, and little besides. Now he took those which had come that morning, and went out upon the terrace to run through them in the sunshine.
Bills, a communication from his agent at Etchingham, a note from his man of affairs in Cairo, and--hullo!--a letter from his brother, Harwich!
That did not promise him much pleasure. Already he had received several family letters scarcely rejoicing in his marriage. They had not bothered him as much as he had formerly feared they would. He did not expect his relations, or the world, to look at things with his eyes, to think of Ruby with gentleness or even forgiveness for her past. He knew his world too well to make preposterous mental demands upon it. But Harwich had already expressed himself with his usual freedom. There seemed no particular reason why he should write so soon again.