She did not understand why Hylda’s hands trembled so, why so strange a look came into her face, but, in an instant, the rare and appealing eyes shone again with a light of agitated joy, and suddenly Hylda leaned over and kissed her cheek.
“Smell the coffee,” she said with assumed gaiety. “Doesn’t fair-and-sixty want her breakfast? Sunrise is a splendid tonic.” She laughed feverishly.
“My darling, I hadn’t seen the sun rise in thirty years, not since the night I first met Windlehurst at a Foreign Office ball.”
“You have always been great friends?” Hylda stole a look at her.
“That’s the queer part of it; I was so stupid, and he so clever. But Windlehurst has a way of letting himself down to your level. He always called me Betty after my boy died, just as if I was his equal. La, la, but I was proud when he first called me that—the Prime Minister of England. I’m going to watch the sun rise again to-morrow, my darling. I didn’t know it was so beautiful, and gave one such an appetite.” She broke a piece of bread, and, not waiting to butter it, almost stuffed it into her mouth.
Hylda leaned over and pressed her arm. “What a good mother Betty it is!” she said tenderly.
Presently they were startled by the shrill screaming of a steamer whistle, followed by the churning of the paddles, as she drove past and drew to the bank near them.
“It is a steamer from Cairo, with letters, no doubt,” said Hylda; and the Duchess nodded assent, and covertly noted her look, for she knew that no letters had arrived from Eglington since Hylda had left England.
A half-hour later, as the Duchess sat on deck, a great straw hat tied under her chin with pale-blue ribbons, like a child of twelve, she was startled by seeing the figure of a farmer-looking person with a shock of grey-red hair, a red face, and with great blue eyes, appear before her in the charge of Hylda’s dragoman.
“This has come to speak with my lady,” the dragoman said, “but my lady is riding into the desert there.” He pointed to the sands.