She led the way out. Martin exchanging words of commonplace with Mrs. Dangerfield, followed in an ecstasy. Did ever woman, outside Botticelli’s Primavera, walk with such lissomeness? A chasseur turned the four-flanged doors and they emerged into the clear morning sunshine. The old bearded Arab carriage porter called an hotel arabeah from the stand. But while the driver, correct in metal-buttoned livery coat and tarbush, was dashing up with his pair, Martin caught sight of Fortinbras walking towards them.
“There he is,” said Martin.
“Who?”
“Fortinbras.”
“Nonsense,” said Lucilla. “That’s an English Cabinet Minister, or an American millionaire, or the keeper of a gambling saloon.”
But when he came nearer, she admitted it was Fortinbras. She waved her hand in recognition. Nothing could have been more charming than her greeting; nothing more urbane than his acknowledgment, or his bow, on introduction to Mrs. Dangerfield. He had come, said he, to lay his respectful homage at her feet; also to see how his young friend was faring in a strange land. Lucilla asked him where he was staying.
“When last I saw you,” he answered, “I said something about the perch of the old vulture.”
She eyed him, smiling: “You look more like the wanton lapwing.”
“In that case I need even a smaller perch, the merest twig.”
“But ‘Merest Twig, Cairo,’ isn’t an address,” cried Lucilla. “How am I to get hold of you when I want you?”