By evening Evelyn was feeling better, and I insisted that we dress and dine downstairs, instead of having a bowl of soup in our room, as she wished to do. Although she never complained, I knew she was often depressed on her own account. We had as yet heard no word of the Earl's fate, but Evelyn expected news of his death daily, and it fretted her tender heart to think of him dying alone. For my part, I felt the old reprobate was meeting the end he richly deserved.
In her soft-rose evening dress, with its wide lace cuffs and ruffled undershirt, Evelyn looked quite charming; the wistful droop of her mouth only added to her appealing appearance. I put on my crimson satin, feeling we needed something bright and cheerful, although I still felt self-conscious in the dress. We made a fine show. Several of our gentlemen acquaintances followed us into the lounge after dinner, and attempted to win a smile from Evelyn. Suddenly I saw a rosy flush spread over her face. I suspected the cause even before I followed her gaze to the doorway. There stood young Walter Emerson, looking very handsome in evening dress. He had eyes only for Evelyn, and crossed the room so quickly that he nearly stumbled over a low table.
He had brought his brother with him. I had to stifle a laugh at the sight of the irascible Emerson, he wore a look of such gloom. His evening clothes looked as if they had been pulled out of a traveling bag and put on without the benefit of pressing; his collar seemed to be too tight. He had lost all his swagger and shambled along behind Walter like a great black bear, darting suspicious glances at the elegantly garbed travelers around him.
After greeting me hastily, Walter turned to Evelyn and they were soon deep in conversation. The other gentlemen, being ignored, faded away; and I was left face-to-face with Emerson. He stood looking down at me with an expression of sullen dejection.
'I am to make my apologies,' he growled.
'I accept them,' I said, and indicated the place next to me on the sofa. 'Do sit down, Mr. Emerson. I am surprised to see you here. I understood that social life was not to your taste.'
'It was Walter's idea,' said Emerson bluntly. He sat down, edging as far away from me as the limited confines of the sofa would allow. 'I hate such things.'
'What things?' I inquired, enjoying myself hugely. It was delightful to see the arrogant Emerson cowed by society.
'The hotel. The people. The- the- in short, all this.' He waved a contemptuous hand at the handsome chamber and its finely dressed occupants.
'Where would you rather be?' I asked.
'Anywhere in Egypt but here. Specifically, at the site of my excavations.'
'In the dust of the desert, away from all the comforts of civilization? With only ignorant Arabs for company- '
'Ignorant perhaps; but lacking the hypocrisies of civilization. Good God, how it maddens me to hear the smug comments of English travelers concerning the 'natives,' as they call them! There are good and bad among the Egyptians, as there are in any race; but by and large they are an admirable people, friendly, cheerful, loyal, intelligent-when taught -- For centuries these people were oppressed by a vicious, cruel despotism. They are riddled by disease, poverty, and ignorance, but through no fault of their own.' He was recovering his confidence. His fists clenched on his knees, he glared at me. I rather liked him for his defense of an oppressed people, but I could not resist baiting him.
'Then you should approve of what we British are doing in Egypt. By assuming responsibility for the finances of the country- '
'Bah,' said Emerson vigorously. 'Do you think we are acting out of benevolence? Ask the inhabitants of Alexandria how they enjoyed being shelled by British gunboats, two years ago. We are not so uncivilized as the Turk, but we have the same purpose- our own self-interest. And we are letting those imbecile French mismanage the antiquities department! Not that our own so-called scholars are any better.'
'Are they all wrong?' I inquired. 'All but you?'
My irony went unnoticed. Emerson considered the question seriously.
'There is one young fellow- Petrie is his name- who seems to have some idea of method in archaeology. He is excavating in the Delta this winter. But he has no influence; and meanwhile every year, every passing day sees destruction that cannot be remedied. We are destroying the past! Digging like children for treasure, wrenching objects out of the ground without keeping proper records of how and where they were found…'
I glanced at Evelyn. I could not hear what she and Walter were discussing, Emerson's voice was too loud, but she seemed to find the conversaton enjoyable. I turned my attention back to Emerson, who was still ranting.
'… scraps of pottery! Something should be done with pottery, you know. One should study the various types- discover what kinds of pottery accompany certain kinds of ornaments, weapons, furnishings…'
'For what purpose?'
'Why, there are a dozen purposes. Pottery, like other objects, changes and develops with time. We could work out a basic chronological sequence which would enable us to date not only the pottery, but other objects found with it. And it is not only pottery that can be useful. Every object, every small scrap of the past can teach us something. Most of these objects are now tossed into rubbish heaps, or carried off by ignorant tourists, lost forever to science. Maspero saves only the impressive objects, and half of those are lost or smashed or stolen, in that reputed museum of his.'
'I understand,' I said. 'For example, studies might be made of anatomical remains. The race to which the ancient Egyptians belonged might be ascertained, and the racial mixtures. Are they the same stock today as they were in ancient times? But scholars do not collect bones and mummies, do they, except to display the latter as curiosities.'
Emerson's jaw dropped. 'Good God,' he said. 'A woman with an inquiring mind? Is it possible?'
I overlooked the insult, having become interested in what he was saying. I was about to pursue the subject further when there was a dramatic interruption.
Evelyn was sitting next to the sofa, with Walter leaning on the back of her chair. She suddenly started to her feet. Turning, I saw that her face had gone white as linen. She was staring with a fixed look of horror toward the entrance to the room.
I glanced about. The room was crowded with people, but I saw nothing that might explain her agitation. Before I could make a more searching perusal, Evelyn had collapsed onto the floor. When Walter, clumsy with agitation, managed to reach her and raise her in his arms, she was in a dead faint, from which she was restored with some difficulty.
She would not answer our questions; she was only capable of reiterating her desire to return to our rooms.
'Let me carry you,' Walter begged. 'You are no burden; you cannot walk- '
He put out his arms. She shrank back, as if he had offered to strike her.
'No, no,' she gasped. 'Amelia will help me. I can walk, indeed I can. Pray do not touch me.'
Poor Walter was as white as Evelyn. But there was nothing to be done but accede to her wishes. She walked, falteringly, but without any assistance except mine, to the stairs. As we started up, I had only time to assure Walter that I would let him know next morning how Evelyn was, if he cared to come by.
My maid was waiting when we reached our rooms. Evelyn rejected her attentions, which were given grudgingly enough; she seemed to shrink from any company but mine, but still refused to tell me what was wrong. At her request, I dismissed Travers, telling her to go to bed.
'I believe I will send Travers home,' I said, seeking to strike a casual note, since Evelyn would not talk of the matter uppermost in both our minds. 'She hates everything- the country, the Egyptians, the boat- '
'And me,' said Evelyn, with a faint smile.
'She doesn't think highly of me, either,' I said, pleased to see Evelyn regaining her spirits. 'We can manage without her quite nicely. I shall make arrangements tomorrow. Evelyn, won't you tell me now-
