"Amazing thing," said Muriel at last. "I suppose the Children of Israel crossed somewhere about here. Moses has always seemed to me a slightly humorous person, but I don't think he will again."
"And to me," said Paul reflectively, "he has always seemed immensely impressive. I don't think he will again."
Ursula laughed quietly.
"Why not?" queried Muriel aggressively. She and Paul on the whole got on very well together, but they nearly always sparred. "All this makes the Exodus so extraordinarily real. One can see it happening."
"Yes," assented Paul, "but don't you see, it makes it also extraordinarily small. Good Lord, look at those immemorial sands. Israelites! Why Egyptians and Assyrians and Ethiopians and Greeks and Romans and scores more whose names are forgotten have passed here. I was taught that the Exodus was the central act of the play, but it's merely an interlude for the shifting of scenery."
"In the play called Kismet," put in Ursula.
Muriel, who was sitting between them, glanced from one to the other. Then she settled herself back in her chair. "Oh, go on, you two," she said contentedly. "I love to hear you. You're both of you making your own lives more than any other two people I know, and you both of you pretend you're not."
Ursula laughed again. "We're marionettes right enough," she said, "but by some odd chance we're alive, and we can thoroughly enjoy the play."
Paul drew a deep breath of content. "I wish this bit of it would continue for a very long time," he said happily. And while the great vessel glided on almost silently with its impression of relentless irresistible purpose, the three sat silent, staring at the stars.
The Red Sea unfolded itself. They saw a dawn in Port Suez. Paul was first on deck in his pyjamas; and with but one glance around rushed excitedly down to the cabin that Muriel and Ursula shared between them. Their door stood on the latch. He thumped on it vigorously.