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Page 57
Jane Coop was miserable too; so was the bulldog, and, through a certain
unconfessed and indefinable vigilance they both felt called upon to
exercise in behalf of their beloved mistress, were distinctly nervy.
"Drat the men!" had said the maid, giving pithy verbal expression to
the ragged state of her nerves as she cut the stalks of the beautiful
flowers which came daily without name or message. The dog's method of
expressing himself was somewhat more violent; it consisted of the
sudden seizure between his great teeth of the posterior portion of the
nether garments of low-caste males, white or coloured.
You could almost tell the status of the male bipeds by casting a
discreet eye upon their raiment, and as there was not a muzzle in Egypt
big enough to fit the dog, it had ended in him being led or chained in
polite society.
Damaris's table was next that of the Thistletons, who, with a vague
memory maybe of their duty towards their neighbour as instilled on
Sundays into their rebellious infantile heads, chatted brightly to
right and to left of them at meals.
Full of the milk of human kindness, they allowed it to overflow into
their writhing neighbours' jugs.
They broke through the glacial atmosphere which surrounds the
Britisher's breakfast-table; newspaper propped against jam-pot was no
barrier; their gladsome invitations or suggestions, dammed for the
moment, would rise at last level with the paper's edge to trickle down
the other side and mingle with the eggs and bacon, porridge, kidneys,
or whatever trifle the plate might contain.
They read out scraps of news from the morning paper; they read out bits
of home news from their stacks of correspondence, written for the most
part on eight pages and in the sprawling, uncontrolled script of the
woman who has nothing but trivialities with which to fill her day.
Their blood was blue, their upbringing beyond suspicion; they simply
erred through a too-generous supply of the above-mentioned
philanthropic fluid.
They had come home dead-beat the night before, but were first down to
breakfast, as happy as could be at the thought of the strenuous day
before them, and were ostentatiously comparing their books of notes or
jottings when Damaris came in. They went everywhere with note-books in
their hands, and made entries at the most inconvenient moments during
their journey. To you or me they would have seemed but jottings, but
Berenice could have read you a blank-verse love-poem in the thick
markings of her fountain-pen; and Ellen a _De Profundis_ from the
hieroglyphics and inscriptions copied by her scratchy stylo and under
which she essayed to bury the memory of the tomato-hued Inverness.
Damaris slid into her seat with an inward prayer that she might be
allowed time to read her mail, which consisted of a fat letter from her
godmother and a bulky one from home. "Perhaps _Marraine_ will be back
soon," she thought, opening the other letter first, as is a way with us
perverse humans. Enclosed was an atrociously-written letter to her
mother from her plain-as-a-pikestaff brother, written from Harrow.
". . . it's awfully jolly," wrote the enthusiastic youngster, "being in
Ben Kelham's house. They still talk about his last house-match against
Bumbles. Don't you remember I'd just got over mumps and we went down
for it? Bumbles had six to win and ten minutes to do it in when Howard
was bowled, and Carden, their captain, went in and drove right over the
Pav. He won the match by one, don't you remember? And then Kelham
caught him magnificently in the slips just as time was up."
Damaris looked at a bunch of jasmine lying beside her plate, and sighed
as she opened her godmother's letter; then sighed again, more
profoundly.
The duchess had arrived at Khargegh without mishap. She described the
journey, gradually ascending through the desert, then down through the
narrow valley of rocks--the wastes of rock and gravel--the beautiful
valley--the great plain to Mahariq-Khargegh with its date-palms, its
filthy lanes, its mosques, with the limestone hills almost surrounding
it.
"And we can't get any further, my dear. A report has come of the
appearance near here of a notorious robber gang which has infested the
desert farther south for years. I don't believe it myself--Hobson is
furious, as the hotel we are in is not totally devoid of--shall I call
them mosquitoes?--but the authorities refuse to allow us to proceed. I
have sent a runner through to the friend I was going to see."--Damaris
touched the jasmine at her side and sighed. "I will tell you the whole
history when I return. So sad, my child; so very tragic. She may come
to see me, as the authorities have no power over her. She is staying
at her eldest son's house until his return. I will let you know my
movements as soon as I can. Enjoy yourself. Dekko is very quiet; he
is either apprehensive or going to moult."
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