"This is Barbara—our little Egyptian," said the matron.
Barbara repudiated the description hotly.
"She was born in Egypt," explained the matron.
"Ah," I said, "that wasn't your fault, Barbara, was it? But it was Egypt's good fortune."
Barbara ignored the compliment with the simplicity of childhood, and proceeded to explain with great seriousness: "You see, Mummy was travelling, and she comed to Egypt. She didn't know I was going to happen," she added as if to clear Mummy of any imputation of thoughtlessness.
"And your birthday, Barbara?"
Barbara and I discovered that both of us have birthdays in March—only six days apart. This put us at once on a footing of intimacy—we must have been born under the same star. Barbara proceeded to inform me that she rather liked birthdays—except the one which happened in Egypt. I had half a mind to execute a deed of conveyance on the spot, assigning to her all my own birthdays as an estate pour autre vie, with all profits à prendre and presents arising therefrom, for I am thirty-eight and have no further use for them.
"I am afraid there are more than six years between us, Barbara," I said pensively.
Barbara regarded me closely with large round eyes.
"About ten, I fink. I'm seven, you know."