Damaris looked at a bunch of jasmine lying beside her plate, and sighed as she opened her godmother’s letter; then sighed again, more profoundly.

The duchess had arrived at Khargegh without mishap.  She described the journey, gradually ascending through the desert, then down through the narrow valley of rocks—­the wastes of rock and gravel—­the beautiful valley—­the great plain to Mahariq-Khargegh with its date-palms, its filthy lanes, its mosques, with the limestone hills almost surrounding it.

“And we can’t get any further, my dear.  A report has come of the appearance near here of a notorious robber gang which has infested the desert farther south for years.  I don’t believe it myself—­Hobson is furious, as the hotel we are in is not totally devoid of—­shall I call them mosquitoes?—­but the authorities refuse to allow us to proceed.  I have sent a runner through to the friend I was going to see.”—­Damaris touched the jasmine at her side and sighed.  “I will tell you the whole history when I return.  So sad, my child; so very tragic.  She may come to see me, as the authorities have no power over her.  She is staying at her eldest son’s house until his return.  I will let you know my movements as soon as I can.  Enjoy yourself.  Dekko is very quiet; he is either apprehensive or going to moult.”

Damaris smiled spasmodically when, as she put the letter down under the jasmine, her neighbours let off a broadside.

The head dragoman wanted to get up a party for Deir el-Bahari on the morrow.  He had twenty pairs of donkeys, all of which were so accustomed, it seemed, to going about in a bunch that they refused to move a step if one pair was missing.  Nineteen pairs had been filled from the different hotels, one pair was still minus riders.  Would Damaris make a couple with Mr. Lumlough?

Mr. Lumlough, who was of the raw age of nineteen and who worshipped in secret at the girl’s shrine, blushed divinely salmon-pink and coughed.

Damaris shook her head.

She longed to see the Temple, as she longed to go to Denderah, but not in a crowd; also, she longed to confide all her secrets (of which her visit to the Temple of Amnon was not one of the least) to her godmother.  She was just the slightest bit scared, and, being very young, felt incapable of prescribing for her burnt finger-tips.

She had only to keep away from the fire, but, as I have already said, she was very young.

“Do, Damaris!  We are taking our lunch on donkeys, as well.”

“But why not let the empty pair go without riders?  Or let Mr. Lumlough go on one and let the other trot by its side without anyone?  I’m sure it would love a holiday.”