But if we deny the existence of Chance or of the Fates we shall have to include a sense of humour among the attributes of the Deity. It was what men call Chance that now prolonged the game of cup-and-ball the gods were playing with me.
The head-waiter was indicating my solitary table with the extraordinary gesticulations and grimaces of his kind, when I heard my name called out in a shout of surprise.
A tall man in the uniform of the Egyptian army rose from an adjoining table and came across to me, with a beaming smile and outstretched hand.
“You don’t know me from Adam,” he exclaimed. “It’s this bally uniform.”
“Brogden!” I cried, in a flash of recognition.
“Good shot!” he said. “It’s jolly to find one’s not quite forgotten after all these years. What on earth are you doing here? But you must come to my table, and we’ll tell each other all about ourselves.”
He had me by the arm and walked me across the room to his table.
Again my will had nothing to do with events.
I watched the waiters doing conjuring tricks with knives and forks and napkins, as they rearranged the table, and gaped in astonishment at my old friend.
For he was an old friend, once almost my dearest friend, although I had forgotten his existence.