The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery by Elizabeth Peters Page B

know men were curious about such things! Of course I've wondered. She's never said, and I don't believe she ever will. We all miss him, but there was something very special between them."
    "Yes. Well, where do you want to go for tea?"
Her choice of the Savoy surprised him—she usually preferred a less pretentious ambience—but he didn't become suspicious when she excused herself as soon as the waiter had seated them. She was back sooner than he had expected and even his uncritical masculine eye told him she had not been painting her face or smoothing her windblown hair.
"What are you up to now?" he inquired, helping her into her chair and resuming his own.
Nefret stripped off her gloves. "I happened to remember they were to be in town this week. You haven't met them."
    "Who?"
    "There they are." She stood up and waved.
    There were two of them, male and female; young, well- dressed, obviously American. Both were strangers to him, but when Nefret introduced them he recognized the names. Jack Reynolds had been at Giza with Reisner the year before. He bore a certain amusing resemblance to his mentor, and an even stronger one to the former American President, Theodore Roosevelt, for he had the same stocky frame and bushy mustache and rather prominent teeth. Only the eyeglasses were missing, but he might come to that yet; he was still in his twenties.
The girl was his sister, dark-haired, pink-cheeked, pleasantly plump and breezily informal. She gave Ramses her hand and shook her head, dimpling, when he addressed her as Miss Reynolds.
"Say, now, we're already on first-name terms with Nefret, and she's talked about you so much I feel as if we're well acquainted. My name's Maude. Can I call you Ramses? I think it's just the cutest name."
    "Shut up and sit down, Maude," her brother said, with an amiable grin. "You'll have to excuse her, folks, she's been badly brought up. But I sure hope you'll skip the formalities with us, Ramses. It's a real honor to meet you at last. I've read all your articles and your book on Egyptian grammar, and Mr. Reisner thinks you're just the smartest young fellow in the business."
"Oh, really?" A trifle overwhelmed by all this cordiality, Ramses realized his response had sounded stiff and pompous. Smiling, he went on, "The most complimentary thing he ever said to me was that if I kept at it another ten years I might be half as good an excavator as my father."
Maude stared at him, lips parted. Her brother burst out laughing. "That was a compliment, all right. I sure hope we'll see a lot of you folks this season. Where are you going to be working?"
"The Professor never tells us until the last minute," Nefret said, pouting prettily. "But say, now, Maudie, what have you been doing in London? I hope Jack hasn't made you spend all your time at that dusty old British Museum."
It was an outrageous parody of poor Maude's speech and mannerisms, but it passed unnoticed by the victim, who responded with matching vivacity. The girls discussed shops and gossiped about mutual friends while Jack talked archaeology and Ramses tried to listen to all three of them, wondering what the devil Nefret thought she was doing—aside from eating most of the sandwiches and ridiculing her friend. Finally she pushed her plate away and demanded a cigarette.
    "We didn't mean to ignore you ladies," Jack said, with another of his hearty laughs. "I guess you get tired of all this Egyptology talk."
    Nefret looked as if she were about to say something rude. Ramses hurriedly fished in his pocket and drew out his cigarette case and a parcel wrapped in tissue paper. He offered the case to Nefret and struck a match. In his haste he dropped the little parcel onto the table. The contents spilled out in a glowing tangle of purple and gold.
    Maude sucked in her breath. "Say, that's pretty. Is it real?"
Nefret blew out a cloud of smoke, smiled at Maude, and said sweetly, "Genuine, do you mean? Ramses just now bought it for me, wasn't that cute of him?