"Is the villa far away?" she said, looking round on the crowd of staring Egyptians.
"No, I want you to walk to it. Do you mind?"
His eyes demanded a "no," and she gave it him with a good grace that ought to have been written down to her credit by the pen of the recording angel. They set out to walk to the villa. As they went through the little town, Nigel pointed out the various "objects of interest": the antiquity shops, where may be purchased rings, necklaces, and amulets, blue and green "servants of the dead," scarabs, winged discs, and mummy-cases; the mosque, a Coptic church, cafés, the garden of the Hôtel de Luxor. He greeted several friends of humble origin: the black barber who called himself "Mr. White"; Ahri Achmed, the Folly of Luxor, who danced and gibbered at Mrs. Armine and cried out a welcome in many languages; Hassan, the one-eyed pipe-player; and Hamza, the praying donkey-boy, who in winter stole all the millionaires from his protesting comrades and in summer sat with the dervishes in the deep shadows of the mosques.
"You seem to be as much at home here as in London," said Mrs. Armine, in a voice that was rather vague.
"Ten times more, Ruby. And so will you be soon. I love a little place."
"Yes?"
After a pause she added:
"Are there many villas here?"
"Only two on the bank of the Nile. One belongs to a Dutchman. Our villa is the other."
"Only two—and one belongs to a Dutchman!" she thought.