I had decided mere was no purpose in removing Emerson to a more civilized milieu. By the time we reached Cairo he should be on the road to recovery- unless the removal from his beloved antiquities induced a stroke from sheer rage, which was more than likely. I had told Michael we would remain where we were for approximately a week, by which time Emerson should be out of danger. Michael assured me that the boat crew would be delighted to rest for a week, so long as they were paid. He was distressed that I refused to stay on the boat, traveling back and forth to the excavations daily. I saw no need for this, it would simply be a waste of time.
For the next two days everything went smoothly. At least I thought it did. Later I discovered that there had been ominous signs, if anyone of intelligence had been watching for them. Unfortunately I was not. I was totally preoccupied with my- that is, with Emerson's pavement.
His notion of tapioca and water was good, but I improved on it, adding a teaspoonful of starch and two of bismuth to each quart of water. He had been correct about the impossibility of using an ordinary brush to apply the mixture. I had used my right hand, my left hand- and was almost ready to remove shoes and stockings in order to use my toes- when Evelyn intervened.
She had been copying the painting, and was doing splendidly. I was amazed at her skill; she caught not only the shapes and colors, but the vital, indefinable spirit underlying the mind of the ancient artist. Even Emerson was moved to admiring grunts when she showed him her first day's work. She spent the second morning at the task, and then went up for a rest, leaving me at work. Having covered the edges of the painting, I had set some of the workers to building walkways across the pavement; the supports rested on blank spaces where pillars had once stood, so there was no defacement of the painting, but I had to watch the men closely. They thought the process utterly ridiculous, and would have dragged planks across the fragile surface if I had not supervised them every moment.
They had finished the job and I was lying flat across the walk working on a new section when Evelyn's voice reached me. Glancing up, I was surprised to see that the sun was declining. My last useful finger was beginning to bleed, so I decided to stop; bloodstains would have been impossible to remove from the painting. I crawled back along the boards.
When I reached the edge, Evelyn grasped me by the shoulders and tried to shake me.
'Amelia, this must stop! Look at your hands! Look at your complexion! And your dress, and your hair, and- '
'It does seem to be rather hard on one's wardrobe,' I admitted, gazing down at my crumpled, dusty, tapioca-spotted gown. 'What is wrong with my complexion, and my hair, and- '
Making exasperated noises, Evelyn escorted me back to the tomb, and put a mirror in my hands.
I looked like a Red Indian witch. Although the wooden shelter had protected me from the direct rays of the sun, even reflected sunlight has power in this climate. My hair hung in dusty elf-locks around my red face.
I let Evelyn freshen me and lead me out to our little balcony. Walter was waiting for us, and Michael promptly appeared cool drinks. This evening was an occasion, for Emerson was to join us for the first time. He had made a remarkable recovery; once he grasped the situation he applied himself to recuperation with the grim intensity I might have expected. I had agreed that he might dress and join us for dinner, provided he wrapped up well against the cool of evening.
He had acrimoniously refused any assistance in dressing. Now he made a ceremonious appearance, waving Walter aside; and I stared.
I knew the beard was gone, but I had not seen him since the operation. I had overheard part of the procedure that morning. It was impossible
'Excessive hair drains the strength,' I had heard him explain, in a voice choked with laughter. 'Hold his arms, Michael; I am afraid I may inadvertently cut his throat. Radcliffe, you know that fever victims have their hair cut off- '
'That is an old wives' tale,' Emerson retorted furiously.
'And even if it were not, hair on the head and hair on the face are not the same.'
'I really cannot proceed while you struggle so,' Walter complained. 'Very well… Miss Peabody will be pleased.'
There was a brief silence.
' Peabody will be pleased that I retain my beard?' Emerson inquired.
'Miss Peabody claims that men grow beard in order to hide weak features. Receding chins, spots on the face…'
'Oh, does she? She implies my chin is weak?'
'She has never seen it,' Walter pointed out.
'Hmph.'
That was all he said; but since silence followed the grunt, I knew Walter had won his point.
Seeing, as I now did, the beardless countenance of Emerson, I understood why he had cultivated whiskers. The lower part of his face looked a little odd, being so much paler than the rest, but the features were not displeasing- although the mouth was set in such a tight line I could not make out its shape. The chin was certainly not weak; indeed, it was almost too square and protuberant. But it had a dimple. No man with a dimple in his chin can look completely forbidding. A dimple, for Emerson, was out of character. No wonder he wished to hide it!
Emerson's defiant eyes met mine, and the comment I had been about to make died on my lips.
'Tea or lemonade?' I inquired.
When I handed him his cup, a half-stifled expletive burst from his lips. Walter followed his gaze.
'My dear Miss Peabody, your poor hands!'
'There must be some better way of going about it,' I muttered, trying to wrap my skirt around the members in question. 'I haven't given the matter much thought as yet.'
'Naturally not,' Emerson said gruffly. 'Women don't think. A little forethought would prevent most of the suffering they constantly complain about.'
Walter frowned. It was the first time I had seen the young fellow look at his brother with anything but affectionate admiration.
'You should be ashamed to speak so, Radcliffe,' he said quietly. 'Miss Peabody's hand was swollen and painful for hours after you passed the crisis of your sickness, you held it so tightly; and I had to carry her to her bed because her limbs were cramped from kneeling beside you all night long.'
Emerson looked a little uncomfortable, but I think I was even more embarrassed. Sentimentality always embarrasses me.
'No thanks, please,' I said. 'I would have done as much for a sick cat.'
'At least you must stop working on the pavement,' Walter said. 'Tomorrow I will take over the task.'
'You can't do the pavement and supervise the workers at the same time,' I argued, conscious of an inexplicable annoyance.
Emerson, slouching in his chair, cleared his throat.
'Abdullah is an excellent foreman. There is no need for Walter to be on the spot at all times. Or is there, Walter?'
How he had sensed the truth I do not know, but Walter's uneasy silence was answer enough.
'Come,' Emerson insisted, in a voice of quiet firmness. 'I knew this evening that something was worrying you. What is it? Fruitless speculation will be worse for me than the truth, Walter; be candid.'
'I am willing to be candid, but it isn't easy to be explicit,' Walter said, smiling faintly. 'You
