“El Sheik Abdullah-el-Dhub ak Moplah,” I announced.
Lord Wimpole was plainly impressed. Hastily finishing his left cheek he extended his hand.
“’Oly mackerel ... a real Sheik. Put’er there. I’m a lord meself.”
Ignoring his effusion I spoke solemnly.
“Leagues have I ridden, I and my faithful follower, tracing the flight of birds, yea, even of the swift-skimming whiffle-hens, which ever drew nearer to their home even as my falcon-heart drew nearer to its nest, the tent of the most beautiful.”
I glanced at Lady Sarah who never batted an eye though one lovely lid drooped ever so slightly. Continuing I said, in part.
“And now, the journey done, I am a-weary and would fain repose myself in the light of the gazelle’s eyes. My charger rests neath the nodding fig-tree and my soul is parched and a-thirst.”
This was a craftily contrived bit. Wimpole gaped through most of it but got the final word.
“Thirst” ... he cried. “Gad, I should say so. Me too. Jolly good idea.”
A moment later, her ladyship having retired, Wimpole, Whinney and I raised tall beakers of superb Scotch to my heartfelt toast, “the loveliest lady in the world.”