"Ah—by the way, what news have you of your daughter?" He could not call her by the name he hated. "She is still in Egypt, I suppose?"
"Yes. She and Bruce are somewhere in the Fayoum at present—he has been engaged on some irrigation job for a rich Egyptian of sorts, and he and Iris have been camping out in the desert—quite a picnic they seem to have had."
"Really?" For the life of him he could not speak naturally; but Sir Richard was merciful and ignored his strained tone.
"They sent me some photographs—snapshots—last week," said Sir Richard. "Would you care to see them? I have them here somewhere."
He opened a drawer as he spoke, and after rummaging in the contents for a few moments drew out half a dozen small prints which he handed to Anstice, saying:
"Amateur, of course—but quite good, all the same. Oh, by the way"—he spoke with elaborate carelessness—"how did you come? Are you walking, or have you the car?"
"The car? No, I walked—wanted exercise," said Anstice rather vaguely; and Sir Richard nodded.
"Then we'll have out the little car, and you shall drive us over if you will. And if you'll excuse me for a moment I'll just go and order it round."
He waited for no reply, but bustled out of the room as though in sudden haste; and left to himself Anstice turned over the little photographs he held and studied them with eager eyes.
Four of them were of Iris—happy little studies of her in delightfully natural poses. In one she was standing bare-headed beneath a tall date-palm, shading her eyes with her hand as though looking for someone across the expanse of sunny sand before her. In another she stood by the edge of the Nile, in converse with a native woman who bore a balass on her head; and even the tiny picture was sufficiently large to bring out the contrast between the slim, fair English girl in her white gown and Panama hat and the dusky Egyptian, whose dark skin and closely-swathed robes gave her the look of some Old Testament character, a look borne out by the surroundings of reed-fringed river and plumy, tufted palms. In the third photograph Iris was on horseback; but it was the fourth and last which brought the blood to Anstice's brow, made his heart beat quickly with an emotion in which delight, regret, wild happiness and over-mastering sorrow fought for the predominance.