The Hippopotamus Pool by Elizabeth Peters

obligations in that crude, unsubtle fashion—"
    "Unsubtle? My dear Peabody, you don't know what you are saying. Now if I had done this ... or this ..."
    Leaving the cat Anubis in the sitting room, we retired to our own.
                                           
    The air was still cool and fresh when we left the hotel the following morning. I am always an early riser, and my curiosity about the surprise Emerson had promised made me all the more anxious to be up and about. But never believe, Reader, that curiosity, or Emerson's interesting attentions, had made me neglect my duty as a parent.
    I had gone to Nefret's room immediately upon arising. She was the picture of girlish innocence as she slept, tendrils of red-gold hair framing her face, lips sweetly curved. The name her father had given her well became her, for in ancient Egyptian it meant "beautiful."
    I stood watching her for a while with mingled appreciation and foreboding. I would be the first to admit that my maternal instincts are not well developed—though in my own defense I must add that the raising of Ramses would have discouraged any woman. Having got him, as I hoped, through the most perilous period of life, I had found motherhood thrust upon me once again, and I believe I will not be accused of exaggeration when I claim that no mother ever faced such a unique challenge as Nefret. Only her quick intelligence and her desire to please had enabled her to adjust to a way of life so different from the one to which she had been accustomed.
    She had not done it without argument. As her confidence grew and her trust in us increased, her criticism of civilized conventions intensified. Why should she swathe herself in layers of heavy, uncomfortable garments? Why should she not talk openly and freely to young men, without the presence of a chaperone? Why must she lower her eyes and blush and remain silent in company, when her opinions were as interesting as those of anyone else?
    These rules were absurd. I admitted as much, but I had to insist she follow them. Young and inexperienced, at a time of life when certain physiological developments render a female susceptible to masculine blandishments, she was fair game for men like Sir Edward Washington, and the fortune she would inherit when she came of age would bring suitors swarming around her. We were her only protectors—effective protectors, to be sure, for few men, however infatuated, would risk the wrath of Emerson by taking advantage of his ward. I pondered, as I had done before, about the advisability of adopting her legally. Could we do it? Would she want us to? She was fond of us, I felt certain, but perhaps that degree of intimacy would not please her.
    With a sigh, I abandoned these musings and turned my attention to the issue at hand. Gently I shook her awake.
    She answered my questions without dissembling and accepted my lecture in silence, but she was still pouting when Emerson helped her into the carriage.
    Emerson did not observe the pout. He would not have observed it (men being what they are) even if something had not distracted him. A series of sounds like the honking of a giant goose heralded the appearance of a monstrous object before whose advance the crowd of beggars, vendors, tourists and donkeys scattered. Motorcars were still a rarity in Cairo, and this one was being driven at quite an excessive speed—a good fifteen miles per hour, if I was any judge. It was bright red in color, and an equally brilliant crimson jacket adorned the chauffeur, whose face glowed with pride and pleasure.
    "A Stanley Steamer," Emerson breathed. "Peabody, what would you think of—"
    Leaning forward, I jabbed the coachman with my parasol. "Drive on, if you please."
    However, he was unable to do so since the motorcar was blocking the way. Instead of objecting to the delay, as would have been his normal custom, Emerson leaned forward, studying the vehicle with greedy eyes. Thus