"Played cricket still, and--muddled through! When do we do anything else! In 1882, when Arabi was upsetting things in Egypt we sent a string of gunboats and transports along the canal and one ran aground. If she had lain in the middle of the channel instead of at the side-- well! Wolseley's plans might not have come off. As it was, she lay near enough to the bank to allow the others to be towed past with ropes." "Really? Yes. How interesting!" murmured Katrine vaguely. In the pause which followed she was conscious of a sound like that of a suppressed laugh, and turning round beheld her companion's eyes twinkling with an amusement so infectious that she laughed in sympathy. "Well, but I'm _not_ interested!" she confessed boldly. "There is so much else... Now that we have passed Port Said, I feel quite near to India, and there are so many personal things that I am longing to ask.-- It is months since you have seen them all, but for me it has been years. Five years since Dorothea sailed, and she is my nearest friend. You know her intimately, of course. And Jack! Shall I find them changed?" "In outward appearance? Yes! India ages; but they are the sort that keep young at heart. Jack wears well; growing a trifle grey perhaps; she is too thin, and the boy is like her,--all spirit, too little flesh. Amusing little rascal!" "Yes." Katrine resumed her former position, arms resting on the rail, head turned aside. The Lake of Menzaleh stretched to the western horizon, its surface dotted with fishing boats, and covered with vast flocks of pelicans, flamingoes, and duck, which, unlike the fishermen, had caught all the fish they desired, and were now settling for the night. There was a strangeness, an unreality about the scene, which gave it the substance of a dream. "And--Captain Blair?" Katrine queried softly. It was an effort to introduce the name, but she was determined to do so; nay, more, a mysterious impulse seemed to urge her to intimate something of the true position, to let this man realise that she and Jim Blair were more to each other than mere hearsay acquaintances. She stared before her, her profile pale in the waning light. "I have never seen him, but, through Dorothea, we know each other quite well. He has written to me,--been so kind--sent me brasses--" "Yes." "So, of course, I am interested! Is he nice?" Captain Bedford smiled. "Nice! What composes a woman's idea of `nice'? Honestly, it is not exactly the word I should have chosen as a description!" She turned her head, alert and startled. "You don't like him?" "Oh, pardon me, I _do_!" He considered a moment, then added with emphasis. "Extremely. As a matter of fact, more than any other fellow in the regiment, but `nice' seems to picture a different type. He is not handsome."