Lion in the Valley Read Free Page A

missing from our compartment.
This did not surprise me, since Ramses had an uncanny knack
of disappearing when the spirit moved him to do so. It was a particularly
disconcerting talent in a boy whose normal progression through a room was
marked by a singular degree of clumsiness, owing in large part to his
propensity to undertake tasks beyond his ability.
    At
Emerson's insistence I went looking for the boy and found him in a third-class
carriage, squatting on the floor and engaged in animated conversation with a
woman whose flimsy and immodest attire left no doubt in my mind as to her
profession. I removed Ramses and returned him to our compartment, placing him
in a seat next to the window so he could not elude me again.
    He,
too, had turned to admire the pyramids. I could see only his filthy collar and
the tumbled mass of tight black curls that adorned his head; but I knew his
saturnine countenance betrayed no emotion to speak of. Ramses' countenance is
habitually impassive. His nose is rather large, and his chin matches his nose.
His coloring is not at all English; one might easily mistake him for an
Egyptian youth, and it was this resemblance, in addition to his regal manner,
that had prompted Emerson to give him the nickname of Ramses. (For I hope the
reader knows, without my telling him or her, that I would never agree to have a
British infant christened with such an outlandish appellation.)
    Since
the heads of Ramses and Emerson, not to mention the cat, blocked my view, I
leaned back and relaxed—without, however, taking my eyes from the back of my
son's head.
    As
was my custom, I had engaged rooms at Shepheard's. Emerson complained bitterly
about staying there. He complains every year, so I paid no attention. Some of
the newer hotels are as comfortable, but in addition to offering all the
amenities a person of refinement can expect, Shepheard's has the advantage of
being the center of the haut monde of Cairo. My reasons for preferring this
hotel are the very reasons why Emerson complains of it. He would much prefer
lodgings in the native quarter, where he can wallow in the genial lack of
sanitation that distinguishes lowerclass hotels and pensions. (Men are by
instinct untidy animals. Emerson is one of the few who has the courage to state
his sentiments aloud.) Now I can "rough it" with the best of them,
but I see no reason to deny myself comfort when it is available. I wanted a few
days to recover from the crowded and uncomfortable conditions on board ship
before retiring to the desert.
    A
most reasonable attitude, I am sure all would agree. Emerson's claim, that I
stay at Shepheard's in order to catch up on the gossip, is just one of his
little jokes.
    I
have heard people say that it is difficult to get accommodations at Shepheard's
during the height of the season, but I have never had the least trouble. Of
course we were old and valued clients. The rumor that Mr. Baehler, the manager,
is in mortal terror of Emerson and fears to deny him anything he asks is, of
course, ridiculous. Mr. Baehler is a tail, sturdy gentleman, and I am sure he
would never be intimidated in that manner.
    He
stood on the terrace waiting to greet us—and, naturally, the other guests who
had arrived on the Alexandria train. His splendid head of silvery-white hair
stood out above the crowd. As we prepared to descend from our carriage, another
conveyance drew up behind. It would have attracted our notice, if for no other
reason, because of the effect it had on the guests sitting at the tables on the
terrace. A kind of universal stiffening ran through them; all heads turned
toward the newcomers, and a moment of breathless silence was succeeded by an
outbreak of hissing, whispered conversation.
    The
open carriage was drawn by two perfectly matched grays. Scarlet plumes adorned
their harness, and they tossed their handsome heads and pranced like the
aristocratic beasts they clearly were.
    The