evening, just as the gold of the sunset was beginning to steal into the
sky and to cover the river with glory.

Mrs. Armine was fatigued by the journey, and by the long day at
Denderah, which had secretly depressed her. She looked out of the window
of their compartment at the green plains of doura, at the almost naked
brown men bending rhythmically by the shadûfs, at the children passing
on donkeys, and the women standing at gaze with corners of their dingy
garments held fast between their teeth; and she felt as if she still saw
the dark courts of Hathor's dwelling, as if she still heard the cries of
the enormous bats that inhabit them. When the train stopped, she got up
slowly, and let Nigel help her down to the platform.

"Is the villa far away?" she said, looking round on the crowd of staring
Egyptians.

"No, I want you to walk to it. Do you mind?"

His eyes demanded a "no," and she gave it him with a good grace that
ought to have been written down to her credit by the pen of the
recording angel. They set out to walk to the villa. As they went through
the little town, Nigel pointed out the various "objects of interest":
the antiquity shops, where may be purchased rings, necklaces, and
amulets, blue and green "servants of the dead," scarabs, winged discs,
and mummy-cases; the mosque, a Coptic church, cafés, the garden of the
Hôtel de Luxor. He greeted several friends of humble origin: the black
barber who called himself "Mr. White"; Ahri Achmed, the Folly of Luxor,
who danced and gibbered at Mrs. Armine and cried out a welcome in many
languages; Hassan, the one-eyed pipe-player; and Hamza, the praying
donkey-boy, who in winter stole all the millionaires from his protesting