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one proved treacherous。 There seemed to her nothing ridiculous in this
personification of the garden； as there had formerly seemed to her
nothing ridiculous in her thought of the desert as a being； but the
fact that she did thus instinctively personify the nature that
surrounded her gave to the garden in her eyes an aspect that was
hostile and even threatening； as if she faced a love now changed to
hate； a cold and inimical watchfulness that knew too much about her；
to which she had once told all her happy secrets and murmured all her
hopes。 She did not hate the garden； but she felt as if she feared it。
The movements of its leaves conveyed to her uneasiness。 The hidden
places； which once had been to her retreats peopled with tranquil
blessings； were now become ambushes in which lay lurking enemies。
Yet she did not leave it； for to…day something seemed to tell her that
it was meant that she should suffer； and she bowed in spirit to the
decree。
She went on slowly till she reached the /fumoir/。 She entered it and
sat down。
She had not seen any of the gardeners or heard the note of a flute。
The day was very still。 She looked at the narrow doorway and
remembered exactly the attitude in which Count Anteoni had stood
during their first interview； holding a trailing branch of the
bougainvillea in his hand。 She saw him as a shadow that the desert had
taken。 Glancing down at the carpet sand she imagined the figure of the
sand…diviner crouching there and recalled his prophecy； and directly
she did this she knew that she had believed in it。 She had believed
that one day she would ride； out into the desert in a storm； and that
with her； enclosed in the curtains of a palanquin； there would be a
companion。 The Diviner had not told her who would be this companion。
Darkness was about him rendering him invisible to the eyes of the
seer。 But her heart had told her。 She had seen the other figure in the
palanquin。 It was a man。 It was Androvsky。
She had believed that she would go out into the desert with Androvsky；
with this traveller of whose history； of whose soul； she knew nothing。
Some inherent fatalism within her had told her so。 And now？
The darkness of the shade beneath the trees in this inmost recess of
the garden fell upon her like the darkness of that storm in which the
desert was blotted out； and it was fearful to her because she felt
that she must travel in the storm alone。 Till now she had been very
much alone in life and had realised that such solitude was dreary；
that in it development was difficult； and that it checked the steps of
the pilgrim who should go upward to the heights of life。 But never
till now had she felt the fierce tragedy of solitude； the utter terror
of it。 As she sat in the /fumoir/； looking down on the smoothly…raked
sand； she said to herself that till this moment she had never had any
idea of the meaning of solitude。 It was the desert within a human
soul； but the desert without the sun。 And she knew this because at
last she loved。 The dark and silent flood of passion that lay within
her had been released from its boundaries； the old landmarks were
swept away for ever； the face of the world was changed。
She loved Androvsky。 Everything in her loved him； all that she had
been； all that she was； all that she could ever be loved him； that
which was physical in her； that which was spiritual； the brain； the
heart； the soul； body and flame burning within itall that made her
the wonder that is woman； loved him。 She was love for Androvsky。 It
seemed to her that she was nothing else； had never been anything else。
The past years were nothing； the pain by which she was stricken when
her mother fled； by which she was tormented when her father died
blaspheming； were nothing。 There was no room in her for anything but
love of Androvsky。 At this moment even her love of God seemed to have
been expelled from her。 Afterwards she remembered that。 She did not
think of it now。 For her there was a universe with but one figure in
itAndrovsky。 She was unconscious of herself except as love for him。
She was unconscious of any Creative Power to whom she owed the fact
that he was there to be loved by her。 She was passion； and he was that
to which passion flowed。
The world was the stream and the sea。
As she sat there with her hands folded on her knees； her eyes bent
down； and the purple flowers all about her； she felt simplified and
cleansed； as if a mass of little things had been swept from her；
leaving space for the great thing that henceforth must for ever dwell
within her and dominate her life。 The burning shame of which she had
been conscious on the previous night； when Androvsky told her of his
approaching departure and she was stricken as by a lightning flash；
had died away from her utterly。 She remembered it with wonder。 How
should she be ashamed of love？ She thought that it would be impossible
to her to be ashamed； even if Androvsky knew all that she knew。 Just
then the immense truth of her feeling conquered everything else； made
every other thing seem false； and she said to herself that of truth
she did not know how to be ashamed。 But with the knowledge of the
immense truth of her love came the knowledge of the immense sorrow
that might； that must； dwell side by side with it。
Suddenly she moved。 She lifted her eyes from the sand and looked out
into the garden。 Besides this truth within her there was one other
thing in the world that was true。 Androvsky was going away。 While she
sat there the moments were passing。 They were making the hours that
were bent upon destruction。 She was sitting in the garden now and
Androvsky was close by。 A little time would pass noiselessly。 She
would be sitting there and Androvsky would be far away； gone from the
desert； gone out of her life no doubt for ever。 And the garden would
not have changed。 Each tree would stand in its place； each flower
would still give forth its scent。 The breeze would go on travelling
through the lacework of the branches； the streams slipping between the
sandy walls of the rills。 The inexorable sun would shine； and the
desert would whisper in its blue distances of the unseen things that
always dwell beyond。 And Androvsky would be gone。 Their short
intercourse； so full of pain； uneasiness； reserve； so fragmentary； so
troubled by abrupt violences； by ignorance； by a sense of horror even
on the one side； and by an almost constant suspicion on the other；
would have come to an end。
She was stunned by the thought； and looked round her as if she
expected inanimate Nature to take up arms for her against this fate。
Yet she did not for a moment think of taking up arms herself。 She had
left the hotel without trying to see Androvsky。 She did not intend to
return to it till he was gone。 The idea of seeking him never came into
her mind。 There is an intensity of feeling that generates action； but
there is a greater intensity of feeling that renders action
impossible； the feeling that seems to turn a human being into a shell
of stone within which burn all the fires of creation。 Domini knew that
she would not move out of the /fumoir/ till the train was creeping
along the