Egyptians enjoy inventing soubriquets, and that of Emerson, I believe, requires no elucidation. As I have often said, and never tire of saying, my husband is the greatest Egyptologist of the nineteenth century (of the Christian era), and although the present century is still in its infancy, I do not doubt he will dominate it as well. His physical endowments are no less remarkable than his intellectual skills. As he stood beside me at the rail, his thick black hair was disheveled by the breeze, and his sapphirine orbs shone with anticipation, for we were returning to a particularly intriguing excavation that certain events of a particular nature had prevented us from finishing the previous season.

My own name, Sitt Hakim, means Lady Doctor, and although I had never acquired formal training in medicine, I could not help but feel that I had done some good. My excellent spouse’s comment “No one would dare die if you told them to live” was no doubt meant as sarcasm, but it held a seed of truth. A positive attitude is vital to recovery, and so is confidence in one’s medical attendant.

But I digress.

Emerson shouted greetings in response to the respectful salutations of his numerous disreputable “old friends” (of whom he had far too many, in my opinion). I waved my parasol in a jovial manner, and was amused to observe certain members of the receiving committee back off a few steps. My parasol was regarded by the more superstitious of the fellahin as a device of potent magical power. It certainly was a useful weapon, not only because the victim was not expecting attack by parasol, but because my parasols were made to my specifications, having a rather sharp tip and a stout steel shaft.

With the assistance of some of Emerson’s admirers (whose devotion was not so great as to refuse the baksheesh he dispersed), we got ourselves and our belongings onto the train to Cairo. A similar scene ensued when the train arrived at the Cairo station. How the word of our arrival had got out so quickly I do not know, but more of Emerson’s old friends awaited us on the platform. I had resigned myself to the inevitable delay when an individual in formal morning dress pushed through the crowd and addressed my husband. “Professor Emerson?” he inquired unnecessarily. (There is no mistaking Emerson; his stalwart form is known the length and breadth of Egypt.) “I come from M. Maspero,” he went on. “He asks that you do him the honor of calling upon him as soon as is possible.”