"I'm glad," he said, with the Englishman's almost blunt simplicity—"I'm glad. I wish Isaacson knew."
She felt as if she frowned, but not a wrinkle came on her forehead.
"I didn't tell you," he added, "but I wrote to Isaacson the other day."
"Did you?"
Her hands met in her lap, and her fingers clasped.
"Yes, I sent him quite a good letter. I told him we were going up the Nile in Baroudi's boat, and how splendid you were looking, and how immensely happy we were. I told him we were going to cut all the travellers, and just live for our two selves in the quiet places where there are no steamers and no other dahabeeyahs. And I told him how magnificently well I was."
"Oh, treating him as the great Doctor, I suppose!"
She unclasped her hands, and took hold of the rudimentary arms of her chair.
"No. But I felt expansive—riotously well—when I was writing, and I just stuck it down with all the rest."
"And the rest?"