scene—her knowledge that she had needed protection. It was a blinding illumination. She could not take in at once all it meant—it came slowly, as she lay sleepless at night, or lost herself in reverie, in the days after Crayven's going.
One thing appeared clearly at once. She cabled to Basil: "Shall I come home?" And she began packing before the answer came: "Rather!" She laughed as she read it. "What a boy he is, after all!" she said aloud.
A week later she and Ronald were on the water.
She followed Crayven's journey mentally, step by step—the steamer to Port Said, the plunge into the desert. As she lay at night on deck, motionless for hours under her rugs, and watched the rush of the dark water into darkness, she thought of his long ride through the sands. She seemed to see him wrapped in the Arab cloak, his face rather tired but philosophically calm, as when she had seen it first. He was going back to his work—to danger, perhaps. The incident, for him, was over.
It was probable that she would never see him again. She breathed out an intense wish for his safety and well-being, into the vague night.
