Fortinbras regarded her with humorous benevolence. The question was characteristic. He knew her to be generous, warm-hearted and impatient of trivial convention: therefore he had not hesitated to go to her in his anxious hour; but he also knew how those long delicate fingers had an irresistible habit of drawing unwary humans into her harmless web. He had not come to Cairo just to walk into Lucilla’s parlour. He wanted to buzz about Egypt in philosophic and economical independence. “That, my dear Lucilla,” said he, “is one more enigma to be put to the credit of the Land of Riddles.” Ibrahim stood impassively holding open the door of the _arabeah_. A couple of dragomen in resplendent robes and turbans, seeing a new and prosperous English tourist, had risen from their bench on the other side of the road and lounged gracefully forward. “You’re the most exasperating person I ever met,” exclaimed Lucilla. “But while I have you, I’m going to keep you. Come to lunch at one-fifteen. If you don’t I’ll never speak to you again.” “I’ll come to lunch at one-fifteen, with very great pleasure,” said Fortinbras. The ladies entered the carriage. Martin said hastily: “You gave me the slip last night.” “I did,” said Fortinbras. He drew the young man a pace aside, and whispered: “You think those are doves harnessed to the chariot. They’re not. They’re horses.” Martin broke away with a laugh, and sprang to the back seat of the carriage. It drove off. The dragoman came up to the lonely Fortinbras. Did he want a guide? The Citadel, the Pyramids, Sakkara? Fortinbras turned to the impassive Ibrahim and in his grand manner and with impressive gesture said: “Will you tell them they are too beautiful. They would eclipse the splendour of all the monuments I am here to visit.” He walked away and Ibrahim, translating roughly to the dragomen, conveyed uncomplimentary references to the virtue of their grandmothers. Meanwhile Martin, in beatitude, sat on the little seat, facing his goddess. She was an integral part of the exotic setting of Cairo. It was less real life than an Arabian Night’s tale. She was interfused with all the sunshine and colour and wonder. Only the camels padding along in single file, their bodies half hidden beneath packs of coarse grass, seemed alien to her. They held up their heads, as the carriage passed them, with a damnably supercilious air. One of them seemed to catch his eye and express contempt unfathomable. He shook a fist at him. “I hate those brutes,” said he. “Good gracious! Why?” asked Lucilla. “They’re so picturesque! A camel is the one thing I really can draw properly.” “Well, I dislike them intensely,” said he. “They’re inhuman.” He could not translate his unformulated thought into conventional words. But he knew that at the summons of the high gods all the world of animate beings would fall down and worship her: every breathing thing but the camel. He hated the camel. CHAPTER XIX