“All the same you’d better beware of the Reverend Rekh-marā.”
“Oh, I’m sick of the Amulet,” said Cyril, “we shall never get it.”
“Oh yes we shall,” said Robert. “Don’t you remember December 3rd?”
“Jinks!” said Cyril, “I’d forgotten that.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Jane, “and I don’t feel at all well.”
“If I were you,” said the Psammead, “I should not go out into the Past again till that date. You’ll find it safer not to go where you’re likely to meet that Egyptian any more just at present.”
“Of course we’ll do as you say,” said Anthea soothingly, “though there’s something about his face that I really do like.”
“Still, you don’t want to run after him, I suppose,” snapped the Psammead. “You wait till the 3rd, and then see what happens.”
Cyril and Jane were feeling far from well, Anthea was always obliging, so Robert was overruled. And they promised. And none of them, not even the Psammead, at all foresaw, as you no doubt do quite plainly, exactly what it was that would happen on that memorable date.