But I've been a devil of a way.
I wrote to you--from where?"
"From Singapore," she told him.
"So I did. I remember. But I went to Egypt before that. First-rate place,
Egypt. I know it well, but am always glad to be there. Fine river of its
own. We went to Khartoum, and two marches beyond; then Singapore and the
Straits, Burmah, Ceylon; then India. Didn't I write to you from India?"
"Yes," she told him. She was balancing a salt-spoon idly on a wine-glass,
and seemed scarcely to listen. He rattled on.
"Had great days in India. Shooting, fishing, pig-spearing; polo, dances,
rajahs, pretty women, pow-wows of sorts, and a chance of a fight. All in a
year, my friend--I beg your pardon--and ten days. Quick work, eh? One
crowded year of glorious life. A cycle of Cathay."
She was looking at her saltspoon, stretched beyond her the length of her
arm. "I'm sure you were very happy."
He looked at her directly. "Oh, I was, you know. Otherwise, I guess I
should have written. I was idiotically happy. And you?"
"I was busy," she told him, "idiotically busy." He laughed gaily.
"That's one for me--and a shrewd one. Oh, you deep-eyed scamp! Sancie, you
never give yourself away.
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