“My dear Miss Muirhead, I am afraid it will make a very dull story, and will make me appear very foolish. However, I will willingly appear foolish before such an audience.”
Raife told the story of the woman who was beaten by the Nubian in the back street of Khartoum; of her cries, and his attempt at rescue—and of the stab in the dark from behind. He told it in a characteristically English way—haltingly, and without embellishment.
With elbows on knees, and with dainty fingers entwined under her chin, Hilda Muirhead sat and gazed at this handsome young man—his nationality mattered not to her—as he told the story that “made him appear foolish.” It was incredible to her that a man who boldly ran down a slum, in a hateful place like Khartoum, to hammer a great big ugly black man, who was beating a woman, should be considered foolish by any one, much more so by himself. The thought, a woman’s thought, came to her—“he did it in the dark, too. What curious people these Englishmen are. How they love to ridicule themselves and one another. Fancy being considered foolish to risk his life for helping a woman.”
Hilda Muirhead gazed with admiration, whilst Mr Muirhead rose, crossed the room, and, seizing Raife’s hand, said: “Mr Remington, that’s a fine story. We shouldn’t call you a fool in the United States. We should call you a hero and give you the time of your life. I’m your friend, sir, if you will allow me that honour.”
Raife stammered and blushed. Hilda Muirhead saw that blush and admired it, for there are not many men who blush in the United States.
In an effort to change the subject, which was tiresome to him, Raife said, “By the by, Mr Muirhead, I owe you an apology.”
“Well, now, father,” said Hilda, laughingly, “I wonder what Mr Remington will apologise for next?”
Raife continued, smiling: “Oh, this isn’t so foolish as the other. Only I omitted to give you my card, when we met. I hadn’t got one with me at the moment.” He handed his card to Mr Muirhead, and, turning to Hilda, said: “May I present you with one also, Miss Muirhead?”
Father and daughter read the little neat piece of pasteboard:
Sir Raife Remington, Bart.,
Aldborough Park,
Tunbridge Wells.