And her winter? What would that be like?

What an immense difference one honest, believing, and therefore
inspiring affection must make in a lonely life! Only one--that is
enough. And the desert is reclaimed.

He saw the brakes of sugar-cane waving, the tall doura swaying in the
breeze, where only the sands had been. And his brown cheeks glowed, as a
hot wave of blood went through them.

Progress! He loved to think of it. It was his passion. That grand old
Watts's picture, with its glow, its sacred glow of colour, in which was
genius! Each one must do his part.

And in that great hotel, how many were working consciously for the
cause?

Excitement woke in him. He thought of the rows and rows of numbered
doors in the huge building, and within, beyond each number, a mind to
think, a heart to feel, a soul to prompt, a body to act. And beyond his
number--himself! What was he doing? What was he going to do? He got up
and walked about his room, still smoking his cigar. His babouches
shuffled over the carpet. He kicked them off, and went on walking, with
bare, brown feet. Often in the Fayyūm he had gone barefoot, like his
labourers. What was he going to do to help on the slow turning of the
mighty wheel of progress? He must not be a mere talker, a mere raver
about grand things, while accomplishing nothing to bring them about. He
despised those windy talkers who never act. He must not be one of them.
That night, when he sat down "to have it out" with himself, he had done