“I had no idea you were in Egypt,” I said. “You went into the Civil Service. I have heard nothing of you since.”
“No, you old devil! I wrote you two letters and didn’t get an answer. And then—you know the way, one loses touch.”
I knew. We went on for a time each making the futile excuses and offering the explanations that men do for lapsed friendships when they are renewed by chance. We had been dear friends at Oxford for several terms, and had normally, and without unpleasantness, been separated by circumstance. There was nothing to apologise for.
The great majority of our friendships are determined by propinquity. Time and space have dominion over more of them than death can claim.
“I heard of your coming into the Irish estate,” Brogden was saying. “I must congratulate you. But I see you are still a Padré. Do you know, I have only seen you once before since you were ordained? You’re down from Cairo, I suppose? It’s a bit hot there now but I suppose you have finished the usual beat. You got to Assuan, of course?”
This was just the kind of cross-examination I wanted to avoid.
“No,” I said, “I couldn’t manage Assuan this trip. I hope to come next winter; I must keep your address. But my tourist experiences won’t be very interesting to an old resident. But tell me about yourself. How long have you been in the army?”
“Oh, I’m not a pukka soldier,” he explained with a laugh, “though I wear this kit and am known as ‘Brogden Bey’! We Egyptian officials sometimes trickle in and out of uniform as a matter of expediency. I’m really a rather superlative kind of policeman at present.”
“I don’t understand at all. Let’s hear your story right from the beginning.”
“Well, you remember I passed rather decently into the Civil Service? Eighth or ninth, I think.”