Lost trumpet

THE LOST TRUMPET
92
Simonssen. A porter followed her with two suit¬
cases. She herself walked unladen and untram¬
melled. She held out her hand.
“Colonel Saloney ?” She smiled correctly, politely.
“Miss Simonssen ?” I also bared my teeth.
“Yes.”
She put her hand on my arm. I piloted her through
the throngs, outside the station, into the clamorous
greetings of taxi-drivers and gharry-men innumer¬
able. A gigantic Negro backed away in front of us,
genuflecting, his rear pointing invitation to his
vehicle. Aslaug Simonssen halted and gazed at the
scene capably, collectedly, a little heavily. It was
unbelievable that she was only eighteen or nineteen
years old.
“Which shall we take ?” I asked. “An arabiyeh or
a taxi ?”
“Are these arabiyehs ?” She scrutinized them
without enthusiasm. “Oh, I think we’ll take a taxi.
Much quicker. To Shepheard’s ?”
“How long are you to be in Cairo ?” I asked.
But that she could not say, as I knew. “I think
it will be simpler if at first you put up at some pension,
then.”
“Very well. Colonel Saloney. Do you know of
one ?”
I took her to the Avallaire and engaged a room
for her. Then I said :
“Now we must go and talk. Shall we have a
discreet and comfortable English tea—or go into
the real Cairo and talk there ?”