Arabesque by Geoffrey Household Page A

diplomats can handle Egypt. The Egyptians
are a kindly people, but in such a continual state of panic and excitement that their opinions are negligible. That was also so under the Roman Empire. I would much rather talk to you about it. But
really there is little difference. Their secret police had just the same troubles as we have.
    “We pass up the coast road, the only road, I remind you, connecting one half of the Mohammedan world with the other, to Palestine. Palestine is normally inhabited by Arabs, Jews,
government officials and the British Army.
    “The Arab, contrary to what most of you believe, is not a fanatic. He is equally willing to accept British or German rule, whichever is the stronger.
    “The Jews are wholeheartedly in the war. It is not always easy, however, to know which war. They have one against the Germans and one—just political warfare—against us. The
first is for freedom, internationalism and racial equality; the second is for dictatorship, nationalism and domination of the fellow Semite. They keep both wars entirely separate in their minds. In
time you will learn to do so too. Our own policy in wartime is to defeat the enemy. And that is all. All. A paradise for the intelligent man. He can …”
    “Guy, your duty clerk is on the telephone, and says it’s urgent,” interrupted Captain Wyne. “I’m awfully sorry.”
    “Oh, damn duty clerks! Have any of you realised that if there were no duty clerks there could be no war? Get the women’s clubs to take it up. Hell!” said Furney, descending
from the bar.
    He dropped his neat and unmilitary pince-nez to the end of his nose, grimaced at his audience and went out to the section office.
    “Balmy!” the sergeant-major pronounced. “And we could do with a few more like him.”
    “A pity he’s going,” said Prayle.
    “Going? How do you know?”
    There was a chorus of regret and disbelief. The F.S. were usually well-informed, but nothing had been heard on the grapevine of Furney’s departure.
    “Because I use the loaf, bo. Would he talk to us like that if he wasn’t going?”
    The section disgested and considered Prayle’s latest bit of fortune-telling in silence.
    “How do you spell
diaphanous
?” asked an earnest young lance-corporal.
    “I shouldn’t bother to take notes,” said Bill Wyne kindly.
    Furney returned to the bar. His step was jaunty as that of a city clerk leaving the office for lunch. The professional lecturer, annoyed at interruptions, had evidently given place to the
industrious officer with a new problem.
    “Anybody know where Beit Chabab is?” he asked.
    “At the back of beyond, off the Damascus road,” Wyne answered.
    “Have you got a detachment anywhere near?”
    “No.”
    “Little doings was there in September,” Prayle remarked. “Holiday with an old wog.”
    “Little doings being?”
    “Armande Herne.”
    “And wog?”
    “Wadiah Ghoraib.”
    “Well, you’d better come along. Are we reasonably sober, Sergeant?”
    “Duke of Wellington, sir.”
    “What stage is that?”
    “Sober enough to beat the enemy.”
    “May I take him with me, Bill?” Furney asked. “Montagne is at my office in a flap A flap rampant, when the French start sending signals to London.”
    Prayle changed into the section’s civilian suit. His natural and courteous instinct was to avoid disturbing the illusions of others; as Montagne took him for Furney’s
â
me damn
é
e,
he preferred to look the part.
    He dipped his head in a basin of cold water and towelled it vigorously. The skin no longer came off in patches. His face had become a uniform red. He observed, with a resigned thankfulness for
very minor mercies, that it even showed signs of tanning to a pleasant shade of chestnut. Prayle never quite forgave his face for its appearance; since he only saw it goggling at him from a mirror,
he had no idea of the lovable liveliness it could take on when twisted by humour or lit by generosity.
    They found Montagne