in the brief, bewildering dusk, the Desert rose--swaying towards the
small white houses. The waves of it ran for fifty miles without a break.
It was too deep for foam or surface agitation, yet it knew the swell of
tides. And underneath flowed resolute currents, linking distance to the
centre. These many deserts were really one. A storm, just retreated, had
tossed Helouan upon the shore and left it there to dry; but any morning
he would wake to find it had been carried off again into the depths.
Some fragment, at least, would disappear. The grim Mokattam Hills were
rollers that ever threatened to topple down and submerge the sandy bar
that men called Helouan.

Being soundless, and devoid of perfume, the Desert's message reached him
through two senses only--sight and touch; chiefly, of course, the
former. Its invasion was concentrated through the eyes. And vision, thus
uncorrected, went what pace it pleased. The Desert played with him. Sand
stole into his being--through the eyes.

And so obsessing was this majesty of its close presence, that Henriot
sometimes wondered how people dared their little social activities
within its very sight and hearing; how they played golf and tennis upon
reclaimed edges of its face, picnicked so blithely hard upon its
frontiers, and danced at night while this stern, unfathomable Thing lay
breathing just beyond the trumpery walls that kept it out. The challenge
of their shallow admiration seemed presumptuous, almost provocative.
Their pursuit of pleasure suggested insolent indifference. They ran
fool-hardy hazards, he felt; for there was no worship in their vulgar
hearts. With a mental shudder, sometimes he watched the cheap tourist
horde go laughing, chattering past within view of its ancient,
half-closed eyes. It was like defying deity.