XII

Mrs. Otterbourne, readjusting the turban of native material that she wore draped round her head,said fretfully:

“I really don’t see why we shouldn’t go on to Egypt. I’m sick and tired of Jerusalem.”

As her daughter made no reply, she said, “You might at least answer when you’re spoken to.”

Rosalie Otterbourne was looking at a newspaper reproduction of a face. Below it was printed:

Mrs. Simon Doyle, who before her marriage was the well-known societybeauty, Miss Linnet Ridgeway. Mr. and Mrs. Doyle are spending their holiday inEgypt. Rosalie said, “You’d like to move on to Egypt, Mother?”

“Yes, I would,” Mrs. Otterbourne snapped¹. “I consider they’ve treated us in a most cavalierfashion here. My being here is an advertisement—I ought to get a special reduction² in terms.

When I hinted³ as much, I consider they were most impertinent—most impertinent. I told themexactly what I thought of them.”

The girl sighed. She said: “One place is very like another. I wish we could get right away.”

“And this morning,” went on Mrs. Otterbourne, “the manager actually had the impertinence totell me that all the rooms had been booked in advance and that he would require ours in two days’

time.”

“So we’ve got to go somewhere.”

“Not at all. I’m quite prepared to fight for my rights.”

Rosalie murmured: “I suppose we might as well go on to Egypt. It doesn’t make anydifference.”

“It’s certainly not a matter of life or death,” agreed Mrs. Otterbourne.

But there she was quite wrong—for a matter of life and death was exactly what it was.

 

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