Mr Muirhead was characteristically American, a seeker after information
or truth, so he added: "I am a very plain American and I am not familiar
with the observances or etiquette of English society. I hazard the
suggestion that we should address you as `Sir Raife,' Is that correct?"
Raife was very charmed with these ingenuous people, and this time he
laughed heartily until his shoulder reminded them all of the dagger
wound. Recovering from the spasm of pain, which had caused Hilda to
regard him with the real sympathy which brought the perfect beauty into
her lustrous eyes, he said: "I hope, sir, you will call me Remington,
just Remington. The intricacies of etiquette are far too tiresome for
such pleasant occasions as these. If Miss Muirhead insists on calling
me `Sir Raife' I must submit, but the sooner she will forget the prefix
the greater will be my happiness."
Hilda, with eyes that had changed from sympathy to merriment, and with
fun that was not intended for flirtation, exclaimed: "Really, Sir Raife,
do you mean that? If so, how soon may I call you just `Raife' only?"
Mr Muirhead raised his eyebrows with a quizzical smile.
Raife replied: "I am not very familiar with your language as you always
charmingly and frequently quaintly express it, but I dare to suggest
`right now!'"
Hilda had not imagined that an Englishman, especially an English
aristocrat, could be so quick and graceful in repartee, and in spite of
her natural self-possession she blushed.
Raife was playing his part as a woman-hater rather badly; but he, at the
time, was very confident of himself. Raife was brave enough when they
had returned to the hotel, and he felt that the day's pleasure had, in
no sense, altered his determination in the matter. His bravery came to
his rescue in so far that he managed to avoid the incident of a dinner
together. He pleaded the excuse of his wounded shoulder and retired to
his rooms.
Alone, after dinner, he renewed his moralising. He sat again on the
balcony, and tried to chase away the fever of love which was more to him
than a mere stab of a dagger in the shoulder. He flattered himself that
he was still a woman-hater, and that he had only played a game. This
was a _divertissement_ which should last until his shoulder was healed,
and then he would rejoin Colonel Langton and renew his intention of
big-game shooting. It did not occur to him that he was "big game," and
that he stood to be shot at. It was yet another of those divine nights
which are so frequent in Cairo, and Raife's mood was quite contented as
he sat on the balcony and surveyed this fascinating city.
Among the cities of the East, Cairo is counted one of the most
enchanting. All that Europe has done to spoil the primitive grandeur of
the older civilisation, which has existed centuries before us of the
West, leaves Cairo a monument of the gorgeous and inscrutable past.
Aladdin with the wonderful lamp and all the stories of the Arabian
Nights seem to have emanated from such a place as Cairo.
Raife sat and contemplated the mysterious view which confronted him. It
was dark, but it was early, and the lights of the crowded cafes
flickered below in a serried row of all that counted for speculation.
There, in every garb, every conceivable costume, was a mixture of
nationalities from every corner of the globe Americans, Europeans,
Egyptians, Turks, Arabs, Negroes, and the unfathomable Indians of the
remote East. Raife thought of his first experience of the Americans,
and it was a pleasing one. Hilda Muirhead was a novel type to him; for,
in spite of the fact that fortune had been kind to him in the matter of
wealth and family and inheritance, his experience was limited. A
strange vein of adventure was his. He was descended from the
Reymingtounes, who, in the days of Elizabeth, helped to found the
British Empire, and saved our diminutive islands from invasion and
conquest by the all-powerful Spaniard of the period. His mind did not
travel in this direction. He was an English aristocrat, and possessed
all the endowments of a lavish fortune. At the moment, he was a very
ordinary, human young man. He thought he was a woman-hater. Hilda
Muirhead was to him an interesting specimen. At least, he flattered
himself that was his view of the matter.
Hilda's opinion of Raife is rather hard to determine. She was bred, or,
as they still sometimes say in the United States, "reared" in
Cincinnati, which is on the border-line of south, and hers was an
aristocratic lineage, dating, as far as that country is concerned, to
the old colonial days when the present United States were peopled almost
entirely by British. The British who fought against British before the
Declaration of Independence, were, in a large number of instances,
aristocrats. Hilda Muirhead was descended from such "stock."
Raife now gazed at the wonderful grouping of minarets and mosques which
were silhouetted against the sparkling sky of deepest transparent blue.
Cairo is not a noisy city at night-time, and from his wickered chair
everything was seductively calm. This calm was suddenly made more
pleasing by the strains of music. It was soft, restrained music, and a
human voice predominated. "The Rosary" should, preferably, be sung by a
subdued contralto voice to a low-pitched accompaniment. This was the
song that completed the breaking of a responsive string in Raife's
heart. Hilda Muirhead was singing to her father, but the song floated
upwards and through the still, pure night air, reached him. Could it be
an accident or was it design? No one shall ever know. It happened.
The conquest, for a time, was complete, and Raife felt and knew that
only one woman could have sung that song, that night, in that way.
The song was finished. No ragtime melody followed--nothing. The
exquisite completeness of the situation and the incident left Raife very
doubtful as to whether he really was a woman-hater.