So it was that when Fielding returned he found Mahommed Seti and a
savoury mess awaiting him. Also there was coffee and a bottle of brandy
which Seti had looted in the bazaar. In one doorway stood Fielding; in
another stood Mahommed Seti, with the same grin which had served his
purpose all the way from Cairo, his ugly face behind it, and his
prodigious shoulders below it, and the huge chest from which came forth,
like the voice of a dove:

"God give thee long life, saadat el bey!"

Now an M.D. degree and a course in St. Bartholomew's Hospital do not
necessarily give a knowledge of the human soul, though the outlying lands
of the earth have been fattened by those who thought there was knowledge
and salvation in a conquered curriculum. Fielding Bey, however, had
never made pretence of understanding the Oriental mind, so he discreetly
took his seat and made no remarks. From sheer instinct, however, when he
came to the coffee he threw a boot which caught Mahommed Seti in the
middle of the chest, and said roughly: "French, not Turkish, idiot!"

Then Mahommed Seti grinned, and he knew that he was happy; for it was
deep in his mind that that was the Inglesi's way of offering a long
engagement. In any case Seti had come to stay. Three times he made
French coffee that night before it suited, and the language of Fielding
was appropriate in each case. At last a boot, a native drum, and a wood
sculpture of Pabst the lion-headed goddess, established perfect relations
between them. They fell into their places of master and man as
accurately as though the one had smitten and the other served
for twenty years.