Monny had taken up the study of hieroglyphics, in order to appreciate
intelligently the tombs and temples of the Nile. She had bought books,
and was learning with the energy of a stenographer, to write and read.
She wrote out exercises, and submitted them for correction to "Antoun"
who, as an Egyptian, was to be considered an authority. "Of course,"
she explained to me, "one comes here thinking that all Egyptians
nowadays, even Copts, are Arabs. But _he_ says that Egyptians are as
Egyptian as they ever were, because Arab invasion has left little more
trace in their blood than the Romans left in the blood of the English.
It interests me _much_ more to feel when I'm in Egypt that I'm among
real Egyptians."

With this in my mind, I was convinced that a love letter in
hieroglyphics, unearthed by moonlight in the mounds of Fustat, would
please Monny.

The difficulty was that, though I could speak Arabic fairly well, I
hardly knew the difference between hieroglyphic, hieratic and demotic
forms; but the limited symbols I was able to employ were so strong in
themselves that a few would go a long way: and if they were not as
correct as the sentiments they expressed, Monny was not herself a
mistress of hieroglyphic style. I could find no hieroglyphic suit in
which to clothe the name Ernest; but since I had become keeper of men,
mice, and morals in Sir Marcus Lark's floating zoo, Monny's craze for
Egyptianizing everything had suggested the nickname of Men-Kheper-Ra.
She sometimes called me Ra for short, therefore I now ventured to
divert to my own uses a sign and cartouche once the property of a "son
of the Sun," and King of Egypt: