It Happened in Egypt | Page 7

ahead of the ship to
Alexandria, to find out from Anthony Fenton ("Antoun Effendi" the
biggest boys used to nickname him at school) more about the true
history of that treasure than he dared trust to paper and ink and the post
office.
So I put off falling in love with Rosamond Gilder till I should have
seen Anthony, and tidied up my distracted mind. A little later would do,
I told myself, because (owing to the fact that my ancestral castle had
figured in Biddy's tales of long ago) I was annexed as one of the
protégés; allowed to make a fifth at the small, flowery table under a
desirable porthole in the green and white restaurant; also I was invited
to go about with the ladies and show them Cairo. Just how much "going
about," and falling in love, I should be able to do there, depended on
"Antoun Effendi." But when Biddy congratulated me on my luck, and
chance of success in the "scheme," I said nothing of Anthony.
CHAPTER II
CLEOPATRA AND THE SHIP'S MYSTERY
Now, at last, I can skip over the three days at sea, and get to our arrival
at Alexandria, because, as I've said, the exciting part began soon after,
at Cairo.
They were delightful days, for the Laconia is a Paris hotel disguised as
a liner. And no man with blood in his veins could help enjoying the
society of Brigit O'Brien and Rosamond Gilder. Cleopatra, too, was not
to be despised as a charmer; and then there was the human interest of

the protégées, the one with the eyes and the one who had reluctantly
developed into the Ship's Mystery.
Still, in spite of Biddy and Monny and the others, and not for them, my
heart beat fast when, on the afternoon of the third day out from Naples,
the ship brought us suddenly in sight of something strange. We were
moving through a calm sea, more like liquefied marble than water, for
it was creamy white rather than blue, veined with azure, and streaked,
as marble is, with pink and gold. Far away across this gleaming floor
blossomed a long line of high-growing lotus flowers, white and yellow
against a silver sky. The effect was magical, and the wonder grew when
the big flower-bed turned into domes and cupolas and spires rising out
of the sea. Unimaginative people remarked that the coast looked so flat
and uninteresting they didn't see why Alexander had wanted to bother
with it; but they were the sort of people who ought to stop at home in
London or Birmingham or Chicago and not make innocent
fellow-passengers burn with unchristian feelings.
Soon I should see Anthony and hear his news. I felt sure he would be at
Alexandria to meet the ship. When "Antoun Effendi" makes up his
mind to do a thing, he will crawl from under a falling sky to do it. As
the Laconia swept on, I hardly saw the glittering city on its vast
prayer-rug of green and gold, guarded by sea forts like sleepy
crocodiles. My mind's eyes were picturing Anthony as he would look
after his wild Balkan experiences: brown and lean, even haggard and
bearded, perhaps, a different man from the smart young officer of
everyday life, unless he'd contrived to refit in the short time since his
return to Egypt--a day or two at most, according to my calculation. But
all my imaginings fell short of the truth.
As I thought of Anthony, Mrs. East came and stood beside me. I knew
she was there before I turned to look, because of the delicate tinkling of
little Egyptian amulets, which is her accompaniment, her leit motif, and
because of the scent of sandalwood with which, in obedience to the
ancient custom of Egyptian queens, she perfumes her hair.
I don't think I have described Monny Gilder's aunt, according to my
conception of her, though I may have hinted at Biddy's. Biddy having a

habit of focussing her sense of humour on any female she doesn't
wholly love, may not do Mrs. East justice. The fact is, Monny's aunt is
a handsome creature, distinctly a charmer who may at most have
reached the age when Cleopatra--Antony's and Caesar's Cleopatra--died
in the prime of her beauty. If Mrs. East chooses to date herself at
thirty-three, any man not a confirmed misanthrope must believe her.
Biddy says that until Peter Gilder was safely dead, Clara East was just
an ordinary, well-dressed, pleasure-loving, novel-reading,
chocolate-eating, respectable widow of a New York stockbroker:
superstitious perhaps; fond of consulting palmists, and possessing
Billikens or other mascots: (how many women are free from
superstition?) slightly oriental in her love of sumptuous colours and
jewellery; but then her mother (Peter Gilder's step-mother) was a
beautiful Jewish