When the dance ended he turned and withdrew. Nefret had not seen him; her hand still on Ramses’s shoulder, she looked up into his face and spoke. Composed and unresponsive, he shook his head. Then another gentleman approached Nefret; she would have refused him, I think, had not Ramses stepped back, bowed, and walked away.

Emerson took hold of me. My eyes on the retreating form of my son, I said absently, “It is not a waltz, Emerson, it is a schottische.”

“Oh,” said Emerson.

Threading his way through the whirling forms, Ramses reached the door of the ballroom. Not until that moment, when he stepped aside to allow a party to enter, did I catch a glimpse of his face.

“Excuse me, Emerson,” I said.

Ramses was not in the lounge or the Long Bar or the Moorish Hall or on the terrace. Unless he had left the hotel altogether, there was only one other refuge he would have sought. I went round the hotel into the garden. I heard their voices before I saw them. She must have left her partner and followed him, as I had done, but a surer instinct even than mine had led her to the right spot, a little dell where a circle of white rosebushes surrounded a curved stone bench. The flowers glimmered like mother-of-pearl in the moonlight and their scent hung heavy in the still air.

They must have been talking for some little time, for the first words I made out, from Nefret, were obviously a response to something he had said.

“Don’t be so damned polite!”

“Would you rather I called you rude names? Or knocked you about? That is, I am told, a demonstration of affection in some circles.”

“Yes! Anything but this—this—”

“Keep your voice down,” Ramses said.

I moved slowly and carefully along the graveled path until I reached a spot from which I could see them. They stood facing one another; all I could see of Ramses was the white of his shirtfront. Her back was to me; her robe shone with the same pearly luster as the roses that formed a frame round her, and the gems on her wrist twinkled as she raised a gloved hand and placed it on his shoulder. Her touch was not heavy, but he flinched away and Nefret’s hand fell to her side.

“I’m sorry!”

“Sorry for what?”

“We were friends once. Before…”

“And still are, I hope. Really, Nefret, must you make a scene? I find this very fatiguing.”

I did not hear what she said, but it had the effect of finally breaking through his icy and infuriating self-control. He took her by her arm. She twisted neatly away and stood glaring at him, her breast rising and falling.

“You taught me that one,” she said.

“So I did. Here is one I did not teach you.”

His movement was so quick I saw only the result. One arm held her pressed to his side, her body arched like a bow in his hard grasp. Putting his hand under her chin, he tilted her head back and brought his mouth down on hers.

He went on kissing her for quite a long time. When at last he left off, they were both exceedingly short of breath. Naturally Ramses was the first to recover himself. He released her and stepped back.

“My turn to apologize, I believe, but you really oughn’t trust anyone to behave like a gentleman when you are alone with him in the moonlight. No doubt Percy has better manners.”

Nefret’s hand went to her throat. She started to speak, but he cut her off.

“However, he’s not much of a gentleman if he skulks in the shrubbery looking on while a lady is being kissed against her will. He’s a little slow, perhaps. Shall we give it another try?”

I could hardly blame her for striking at him. It was not a genteel ladylike slap, but a hard swing with her clenched fist (learned from him, I did not doubt) that would have staggered him if it had landed. It did not. As his hand went up to block the blow she caught herself; and for a long moment they stood like statues, her curled fingers resting in the cradle of his palm. Then she turned and walked away.

Ramses sat down on the bench and covered his face with his hands.

Naturally, if I had happened upon such a scene that involved mere acquaintances I would have discreetly retired without making my presence known. Under these circumstances I did not hesitate to intrude. To be honest, I was not myself in a proper state to think coolly. How could I have missed seeing it—I, who prided myself on my awareness of the human heart?

He must have heard the rustle of my skirts; he had had time to compose himself. When I emerged from the shrubbery he rose and tossed away the cigarette he had been smoking.

“Continue smoking if it will calm your mind,” I said, seating myself.

“You too?” Ramses inquired. “I might have known. Perhaps in another ten or twenty years you will consider me mature enough to go about without a chaperone.”

“Oh, my dear, don’t pretend,” I said. My voice was unsteady; the cool, mocking tone jarred on me as never before. “I am so sorry, Ramses. How long have you…”

“Since the moment I set eyes on her. Fidelity,” Ramses said, in the same cool voice, “seems to be a fatal flaw of our family.”

“Oh, come,” I said, accepting the cigarette he offered and allowing him to light it for me. “Are you telling me you have never—er…”

“No, Mother dear, I am not telling you—er—that. I discovered years ago that lying to you is a waste of breath. How the devil do you do it? Look at you—ruffles trailing, gloves spotless—blowing out smoke like a little lady dragon and prying into the most intimate secrets of a fellow’s life. Spare me the lecture, I beg. My moments of aberration—and there were, I confess, a number of them—were attempts to break the spell. They failed.”

“But you were only a child when you saw her for the first time.”

“It sounds like one of the wilder romances, doesn’t it? Most authors would throw in hints of reincarnation and souls destined for one another down the long centuries… It wasn’t so simple as I have made it sound, you know, or as tragic. A weakness for melodrama is another of our family failings.”

“Tell me,” I urged. “It is unhealthy to keep one’s feelings to oneself. How often you must have yearned to confide in a sympathetic listener!”

“Er—quite,” said Ramses.

“Does David know?”

“Some of it.” Glancing at me, Ramses added, “It wasn’t the same, naturally, as confiding in one’s mother.”

“Naturally.”

I said no more. I could feel his need to unburden himself; experienced as I am in such matters, I knew that sympathetic silence was the best means of inducing his confidences. Sure enough, after a few moments, he began.

“It was only a child’s infatuation at first; how could it be anything more? But then came that summer I spent with Sheikh Mohammed. I thought that being away from her for months, with the sheikh providing interesting distractions…” Catching himself, he added hastily, “Riding and exploring and strenuous physical exercise—”

“Of all varieties,” I muttered. “Shameful old man! I ought never have allowed you to go.”

“Never mind, Mother. I would apologize for referring, however obliquely, to a subject unsuitable for female contemplation, if I weren’t certain that you are thoroughly conversant with it. When David and I came back to Cairo , I thought I’d got over it. But when I saw her on the terrace at Shepheard’s that afternoon, and she ran to meet me, laughing, and threw her arms round me…” He plucked one of the drooping roses. Twirling the stem between his fingers, he went on, “I knew that day I loved her and always would, but I couldn’t tell anyone how I felt; a declaration of undying passion from a sixteen-year-old boy would have provoked laughter or pity, and I couldn’t have stood either. So I waited, and worked and hoped, and lost her to a man whose death came close to destroying her. She had begun to forgive me for my part in that, I think—”

“Forgive you!” I exclaimed. “What had she to forgive? You were the soul of honor throughout that horrible business. It is for her to ask your forgiveness. She ought to have had faith in you.”