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He lifted her to her feet. What a fine muscular youth he was. And blue eyes he had, so rich in color, almost like the other....

She glanced back over her shoulder. It had not been a dream. The statue stood there towering over the iron pathways; she could hear the roar of the chariots, though none was in sight.

She was weak again for a moment, stumbling; he caught her. He helped her right along.

She listened keenly to the words he spoke.

"It's a nice place; you can sit, rest. You know, you gave me quite a scare there a moment ago. Why, you fell just as if you'd been struck over the head."

The cafe. The voice on the gramophone had said, "I shall meet you in the cafe." A place for drinking coffee, obviously, for meeting, talking. And full of women in these dresses, and young men clothed like Lord Rutherford and this fine creature, with the powerfully built arms and legs.

She sat down at the small marble-top table. Voices everywhere. "Why, I frankly think everything here is super, but you know Mother, the way she carries on." And "Gruesome, isn't it? They say her neck was broken." And "Oh, this tea is cold. Call that waiter."

She watched the man at the next table peel off slips of printed paper for the servant. Was this money? The servant was giving him coins in return.

A tray of hot coffee had been set down before her. She was so hungry now she could have drunk

the pot entirely, but she knew it was proper to let him pour it in the cups. Lord Rutherford had showed her that much. And yes, the young man did it. Pretty smile he had. How to tell him that she wanted to bed him immediately? They should find a small inn. Surely these people had inns.

Across from her a young woman spoke rapidly:

"Well, I don't even like opera. I wouldn't go if I were in New York at all. But since we're in Cairo, we're all supposed to go to the opera and love it. It's ridiculous."

"But darling, it's Aida."

Aida. "Celeste Aida." She began to hum it, then sing it softly, too low for these people to hear. But her companion heard her. He smiled at her, positively beamed. Getting him into bed would be nothing. Finding the bed, that might be hard. Of course she could take him back to the little house, but that was too far away. She stopped singing.

"Oh, no, you mustn't stop," he said. "Go on singing."

Go on singing, go on singing. Waiting just a moment was the secret, then the meaning came surprisingly clear.

Ramses had taught her that. In the beginning, each tongue sounds impenetrable. You speak it; you listen; and gradually it comes clear.

Ramses; Ramses, whose statue stood among the iron chariots! She turned, craning her neck to see through the window--why, the window was covered over with a giant piece of very clear glass. She could see the dirt on it. However did they make such a thing? "Modern times," as Lord Rutherford said. Well, if they could make those monstrous chariots, they could make such glass.

"You've a lovely voice, positively lovely. Are you by any chance going to the opera? Everyone in Cairo is going, or so it seems."

"The ball will last till dawn," said the woman opposite to her female companion.

"Well, I think it's super. We're just too far from civilization to complain."

He laughed. He had overheard the women too.

"The ball's supposed to be the event of the season here. They hold it at Shepheard's." He drank a swallow of his coffee. That was the signal she'd been waiting for. She downed her entire cup.

He smiled. He poured her another from the little pot.

"Thank you," she said, carefully mimicking the record.

"Oh, but didn't you want sugar?"

"I think I prefer cream, if you don't mind."

"Of course not." He poured a dollop of milk in her cup. Was that cream? Yes, Lord Rutherford had given her the last of it that the slave woman had in the house.

"Are you going to the ball at Shepheard's? We're staying at Shepheard's, my uncle and I. My uncle's in trade here."

He stopped again. What was he staring at? Her eyes? Her hair? He was very pretty; she loved the fresh new skin of his face and throat. Lord Rutherford was a fine-looking man, for certain; but this one had the beauty of youth.