It Happened in Egypt | Page 5

Salem, Massachusetts, a school-teacher taking
her first holiday. That sounds harmless, and it looks harmless to an
amateur; but wait till you meet her and see what instinct tells you about
her eyes. Oh, we shall have ructions! But that reminds me. You haven't
told me where you're bound--or anything."
"Thanks for putting me among the 'specimens.' But this sample hasn't
yet been collected by Miss Gilder."
"You might be her salvation, and keep her out of mischief. She's quite
wild now with sheer joy because she's going to Egypt. But do be
serious, and tell me all I pine to know, if you want me to do the same
by you."

"Well--though it's unimportant compared to what you have to tell! I'm
an insignificant second secretary to Sir Raymond Ronalds, the British
Ambassador at Rome. I've got four months' leave----"
"Ah, that's what comes of duffing so skilfully, and avoiding all the
things you didn't want to do, till you got exactly what you did want! I
remember when we were small boy and girl, and you used to walk
down to the vicarage every day, to talk Greek or Latin or something
with father----"
"No, to see you!"
"Well, you used to tell me, if you couldn't be the greatest prize-fighter
or the greatest opera-singer in the world, you thought you'd like to be a
diplomat.
"I haven't become a diplomat yet, in spite of Foreign Office grubbing.
But I've been enjoying life pretty well, fagging up Arabic and modern
Greek, and playing about with pleasant people, while pretending to do
my duty. Now I've got leave on account of a mild fever which turned
out a blessing in disguise. I could have found no other excuse for Egypt
this winter."
"You speak as if you had some special reason for going to Egypt."
"I've been wishing to go, more or less, for years, because you know--if
you haven't forgotten--I was accidentally born in Cairo while my father
was fighting in Alexandria. My earliest recollections are of Egypt, for
we lived there till I was four--about the time I met and fell in love with
you. I've always thought I'd like to polish up old memories. But my
special hurry is because I'm anxious to meet a friend, a chap I admire
and love beyond all others. I want to see him for his own sake, and for
the sake of a plan we have, which may make a lot of difference for our
future."
"How exciting! Did I ever know him?"
"I think not."

"Well? Don't you mean to tell me who he is?"
I hesitated, sorry I had let myself go: because Anthony had written that
he didn't want his movements discussed at present.
"I'll tell you another time," I said. "I want to talk about you. Anybody
else is irrelevant."
"Clever Duffer! Your friend is a secret."
"Not he! But if there's a secret anywhere, it's only a dull, dusty sort of
secret. You wouldn't be interested."
"Women never are, in secrets. Well, I'm glad somebody else besides
myself has a mystery to hide."
"You're very quick."
"I'm Irish! But I'm merciful. No more questions--till you're off your
guard. You're free to ask me all you like, if there's anything you care to
know which horrid newspapers haven't told you these last few years."
"There are a thousand things. You didn't answer anybody's letters,
after--after----"
"After Richard died. Oh, I can talk about it, now. It was the best thing
that could happen for him, poor fellow. Life in hiding was purgatory.
No, I couldn't answer letters, though my old friends (you among them)
wanted to be kind. There wasn't anything I could let anybody do for me.
Monny Gilder's different. You'll soon see why."
I smiled indulgently. But, though I was to be introduced to Miss Gilder
for the purpose of being eventually gilded by her, at the instant my
thoughts were for my childhood's sweetheart.
Brigit Burne made a terrible mess of things in marrying, when she was
eighteen or so, Richard O'Brien, in the height of his celebrity as a
socialist leader. People still believed in him then, at the time of his
famous lecturing tour and visit to his birthplace on our green island;

and though he was more than twice her age, the fascination he had for
Biddy surprised few who knew him.
He was eloquent, in a fiery way. He had extraordinary eyes, and it was
his pride to resemble portraits of Lord Byron. After an acquaintance of
a month, Biddy married O'Brien (I had just gone up to Oxford at the
time, or I should have tried not to let it happen), went to America with
him, and voluntarily ceased to exist for her friends.
Poor girl, she must have had