“Oh dear, what have you done now?” I cried. Emerson’s uneasy relations with the director of the Service des Antiquités certainly justified the question, but seeing his eyes flash and his chin protrude, I went on with (I am proud to say) scarcely a pause, “What task that would have daunted a lesser man have you accomplished, to win the commendation of M. Maspero? For I do not doubt that he wishes to congratulate you, or, what is more likely, enlist your aid in solving—”

Emerson interrupted me with a loud “Hmph!” I decided I might have been overdoing it just a bit.

“Inform M. Maspero that I will respond to his request after we have arranged for accommodations and rested from the journey,” said Emerson to the individual in question. Emerson’s tone left no room for debate. The young man bowed and backed away.

“Really, Peabody,” said Emerson to me. “Must you lower your dignity by running on at such length? A curt nod and a frosty stare would have been good enough for a cursed Frenchman.”

Let me hasten to explain that Emerson had no particular prejudice against the French, who had been allowed to continue their control of the Antiquities Department when the British took over the other departments of government. No indeed! Emerson takes an unbiased and candidly critical view of most people: archaeologists who do not live up to his professional standards (most of them); all bureaucrats, tourists, and journalists; and the majority of the officials of the Service des Antiquités.

“Emerson,” I said, taking his arm. “Speaking of accommodations, those on the steamer—”

“Were not up to your standards? Well, my dear, what with one thing and another I think you deserve a few days at Shepheard’s.”

That was precisely what I intended to do, but I had expected it would take a while to convince Emerson, who hates elegant hotels. Our dahabeeyah was still in Luxor, but it would have been just like Emerson to suggest we stay with one of his old friends or go to one of the plainer (i.e., less sanitary) hotels. This unexpected and courteous acquiescence touched me deeply. I told Emerson so and gave his arm a loving squeeze.

We were greeted as the honored guests we were, and after a brief interlude (which involved the relocation of the occupants thereof) were shown to our usual quarters.

“Well, well,” said Emerson, trying not to look at the pile of luggage that awaited unpacking. “I believe I will just—er—run round to see Maspero. Rude to keep him waiting.”

Emerson’s is not a nature that lends itself to successful subterfuge. Never in his life had he given a curse (as he would have said) about offending M. Maspero.

“Emerson,” I said, “you intend to call on Maspero? Without me?”