“And twelve from his book-shop.”
“Who’s this from, Prudence, I don’t know the writing…?
“Awful lot of official stuff,” complained Sir Sam-son. “Can’t bother about that now. You might take charge of it, Peter, and have a look through it when you get time.”
“It won’t be for a day or two I’m afraid, sir. We’re simply snowed under with work in the Chancery over this gymkhana.”
“Yes, yes, my boy, of course, all in good time. Al-ways stick to the job in hand. I dare say there’s nothing that needs an answer, and anyway there’s no knowing when the next mail will go… I say, though, here’s something interesting, my word it is. Can’t make head or tail of the thing. It says, ‘Good luck. Copy this letter out nine times and send it to nine different friends’… What an extraordinary idea.”
“Envoy, dear, do be quiet; I want to try the new records.’
“No, but, Prudence, do listen. It was started by an American officer in France. If one breaks the chain one gets bad luck, and if one sends it on, good luck. There was one woman lost her husband and another one who made a fortune at roulette—all through doing it and not doing it… you know I should never have believed that possible…”
Prudence played the new records. It was a sol-emn thought to the circle that they would hear these eight tunes daily, week after week, without release, until that unpredictable day when another mail should arrive from Europe. In their bungalows, in their compound, in their rare, brief excursions into the outer world, these words would run in their heads…. Meanwhile they opened their letters and unrolled their newspapers.
“Envoy, what have you got there?”
“My dear, another most extraordinary thing. Look here. It’s all about the Great Pyramid. You see it’s all a ‘cosmic allegory.’ It depends on the ‘Displacement factor.’ Listen, ‘The combined lengths of the two tribulation passages is precisely 153 Pyramid inches—153 being the number symbolic of ‘the Elect’ in Our Lord’s mystical enactment of the draught of 153 great fishes.’ I say, I must go into this. It sounds frightfully interesting! I can’t think who sends me these things. Jolly decent of them whoever it is.”
Eleven Punches, eleven Graphics, fifty-nine copies of The Times, two Vogues and a mixed collection of New Yorkers, Week End Reviews, St. James’s Gazettes, Horses and Hounds, Journals of Oriental Studies, were unrolled and distributed. Then came novels from Mudies, cigars, soda-water sparklets.
“We ought to have a Christmas tree next time the bag comes in.”
Several Foreign Office despatches were swept up and incinerated among the litter of envelopes and wrappings.
“Apparently inside the Pyramid there is a chamber of the Triple Veil of Ancient Egyptian Prophecy… the east wall of the Antichamber symbolises Truce in Chaos…”
“There is a card announcing a gala night at the Perroquet tomorrow, Envoy, don’t you think we might go?”
“… Four limestone blocks representing the Final Tribulation in 1936…”
“Envoy.”
“Eh… I’m so sorry. Yes, well certainly go. Haven’t been out for weeks.”
“By the way.’
‘ said William, “we had a caller in to-day.’
“Net the Bishop?”
“No, some one new. He wrote his name in the book. Basil Seal.”
“What does he want, I wonder. Know anything about him?”
“I seem to have heard his name. I don’t quite know where.”
“Ought we to ask him to stay? He didn’t bring any letters?”
“No.”
“Thank God. Well, we’ll ask him to luncheon one day. I expect he’ll find it too hot to come out often.”
“Oh,” said Prudence, “somebody new. That’s more than one could have hoped for. Perhaps he’ll be able to teach us backgammon.”
That evening M. Ballon received a disquieting report.
“Mr. Basil Seal, British politican travelling under private title, has arrived in Debra-Dowa, and is staying in M. Youkoumian’s house. He is avoiding all open association with the Legation. This evening he called, but presented no credentials. He is obviously expected. He has been seen in conversation with General Connolly, the new Duke of Ukaka.”
“I do not like the look of this Mr. Seal. The old fox, Sir Courteney, is playing a deep game—but old Ballon will outwit him yet.”
The Victory Ball at the Perroquet exceeded all its promoters’ highest expectations in splendour and gaiety. Every side of Azanian life was liberally represented. The court circle and diplomatic corps, the army and government services, the church, com-merce, the native nobility and the cosmopolitan set.
A gross of assorted novelties—false noses, paper caps, trumpets and dolls—had arrived by the mail from Europe, but demands exceeded the supply. Turbans and tarbooshes bobbed round the dancing floor; there were men in Azanian state robes, white jackets, uniforms, and reach-me-down tail coats; women of all complexions in recently fashionable gowns, immense imitation jewels and lumpy ornaments of solid gold. There was
