Kingsley laughed quietly. "Art is long, but tempers are short!" he
retorted.

Dicky liked a Roland for his Oliver. "It's good to see you back again,"
he said, changing the subject.

"How long do you mean to stay?"

"Here?" Dicky nodded. "Till I'm married."

Dicky became very quiet, a little formal, and his voice took on a curious
smoothness, through which sharp suggestion pierced.

"So long?--Enter our Kingsley Bey into the underground Levantine world."

This was biting enough. To be swallowed up by Cairo life and all that it
involves, was no fate to suggest to an Englishman, whose opinion of the
Levantine needs no defining. "Try again, Dicky," said Kingsley, refusing
to be drawn. "This is not one huge joke, or one vast impertinence, so
far as the lady is concerned. I've come back-b-a-c-k" (he spelled the
word out), "with all that it involves. I've come back, Dicky."

He quieted all at once, and leaned over towards his friend. "You know
the fight I've had. You know the life I've lived in Egypt. You know
what I left behind me in England--nearly all. You've seen the white man
work. You've seen the black ooster save him. You've seen the ten-times-
a-failure pull out. Have I played the game? Have I acted squarely?
Have I given kindness for kindness, blow for blow? Have I treated my
slaves like human beings? Have I--have I won my way back to life--life?"