It Happened in Egypt

								

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