One mild fragrant evening in April, Paul was seated on the terrace of Shepheard's making idle talk with an army officer. At the wicker tables were groups of men in regimentals and women in flimsy frocks. The Saturday night dance was enlivened by the presence of two hundred Americans who had arrived the previous day from Alexandria, one of the principal stops in a superbly vulgar "Mediterannean cruise."
Whilst the dining-rooms were being cleared for dancing, the terrace overflowed with tourists comparing notes on their impressions of the pyramids and the price of amber. Paul and his friend exchanged smiles at incongruous remarks which floated toward them in eager, transatlantic tones. "Well, what is the caliph?" inquired one dauntless debutante. "Darned if I know. Besides I despise tombs. Gee! I can hardly wait till to-morrow to see the snaps; I know I looked like I'd been shot at and missed."
From another direction came less flippant sentiments, voiced by a dowager out of the west. "Our dragoman's name was Moses," she was saying. "The poor fellah, I felt s' sorry for him. His dotter died only yesterday and he told me about the funeral. It was something pitiful. He showed us where she was buried and all, and you should have seen that poor man's eyes! We all gave him a little extra. I s'pose it was silly, but you just couldn't help it."
