And then he asked himself whether he would have the power to forget that in the world there were men who were sick.  And he remembered the words in a letter and other spoken words of an acquaintance in an hotel—­and he was not sure.

The Armines, when they arrived at Luxor, had walked to their villa.  When Isaacson arrived he refused all frantic offers of conveyance, and set out to walk to his hotel.  It was the height of the tourist season, and Luxor was a centre for travellers.  They swarmed, even at this early hour, in the little town.  When Isaacson reached the bank of the Nile he saw a floating wharf with a big steamer moored against it, on which Cook’s tourists were promenading, breakfasting, leaning over the rail, calling to and bargaining with smiling brown people on the shore.  Beyond were a smaller mail steamer and a long line of dahabeeyahs flying the Union Jack, the Stars and Stripes, flags of France, Spain, and other countries.  Donkeys cantered by, bearing agitated or exultant sight-seers, and pursued by shouting donkey-boys.  Against the western shore, flat and sandy, and melting into the green of crops which, in their turn, melted into the sterility that holds the ruins of Thebes, lay more dahabeeyahs, the high, tapering masts of which cut sharply the crude, unclouded blue of a sky which announced a radiant day.  Already, at a little after nine, the heat was very great.  Isaacson revelled in it.  But he longed to take a seven-thonged whip and drive out the happy travellers.  He longed to be alone with the brown children of the Nile.

On the terrace of the Winter Palace Hotel he saw at once people whom he knew.  Within the bay of sand formed by its crescent stood or strolled throngs of dragomans, and as he approached, one of them, who looked compact of cunning and guile, detached himself from a group, came up to him, saluted, and said: 

“Good-morning, sir.  You want a dahabeeyah?  I get you a very good dahabeeyah.  You go on board to-day—­not stay at the hotel.  One night you sleep.  When morning-time come, we go away from all these noisy peoples, we go ’mong the Egyptian peoples.  Heeyah”—­he threw out a brown hand with fingers curling backward—­“heeyah peoples very vulgar, make much noise.  You not at all happy heeyah, my nice gentleman!”

The rascal had read his thought.

“What’s your name?”

“Hassan ben Achmed.”

“I’ll see you later.”

Isaacson went up the steps and into the great hotel.

When he had had a bath and made his toilet, he came out into the sun.  For a moment he stood upon the terrace rejoicing, soul and body, in the radiance.  Then he looked down, and saw the long white teeth of Hassan displayed in a smile of temptation and understanding.  Beyond those teeth was the river, to which Hassan was inviting him in silence.  He looked at the tapering masts, and—­he hesitated.  Hassan showed more teeth.