“So Mr. Dullard really is a missionary,” I said.

“They keep popping up, don’t they?” Emerson pushed his plate away and reached for his pipe. “One would suppose they would have realized they have made little headway and give up.”

“When one takes one’s orders from God, one does not give up,” I said. “Emerson, I believe we owe Mr. Dullard an apology. I shall invite him to join us for tea. If you concur, that is.”

“Apology be damned!” snapped Emerson. “I refuse to apologize to that fellow. But by all means ask him to tea. Selim, do you know where he is staying?”

“With the Copts at Deir el-Mowass,” Selim said promptly. “I will send Daoud with a letter if you like.”

I went to my desk and penned a brief but friendly note. “Tell Daoud to wait for a reply,” I said.

I take some of the responsibility for what was to happen. Due to fatigue, I failed to have observed a familiar gleam in Emerson’s eyes.

Three

As soon as I received a return note from Mr. Dullard accepting our invitation, I requested an expansive tea, with a selection of cakes and tinned strawberry jam to accompany the scones. I have observed that missionaries have excellent appetites when there is an ample supply of food available. No doubt they are kept on short rations by their congregations as examples of Christian fortitude.

On my way to our cabin, I stopped and tapped softly on Nefret’s door. There was no reply, so I peeked inside and saw that the dear girl was sound asleep. The thought of a nap held immense appeal, but I needed to wash away the soot from the train ride and the dust from the rocky expanse of Amarna, tidy my hair, and don a suitable tea gown for our guest.

Mr. Dullard arrived promptly at four o’clock. I tried not to stare at him, but he was certainly an extraordinary figure. Had his feet been bare, I was sure they would have sported the same thick layer of black hair as his hands did. When he greeted me in a precise, high-pitched voice, I had difficulty controlling my reaction because the contrast between his appearance and his speech was so extreme. As I escorted him into the salon, I offered a brief apology for Emerson’s assault, since Emerson had made it clear that he himself would do no such thing, under any circumstances whatsoever, and my mere suggestion that he do so was preposterous. At least I think that was what he said, since his bellow echoed in the salon and he had inserted a remarkable number of curse words into his diatribe. While we waited for tea to be served, I lapsed into general remarks about the weather. Our guest replied in kind, while Emerson snorted periodically.

The missionary tucked into the food with good appetite. He was finishing his third cup of tea when Emerson suddenly reached across the table and seized him by the beard.