The Mummy Case by Elizabeth Peters Page A

could bear it no longer and then requested that he desist.
    He had finished bathing and was almost dressed before my senses, straining for the longed : for harbingers of his father's return, became aware of a sound like distant thunder. Ever louder and more furious the noise became as it neared our door. I looked at Ramses. He looked at me. The cat Bastet rose from the mat and retreated, with dignity but in haste, under the bed. The door quivered, shuddered, and flew open, striking the wallwith a crash. Loosened plaster dribbled floorward.
    Emerson stood in the opening. His face was brick-red. The veins in his throat stood out like ropes. He strove to speak, and failed; only a low growling noise emerged from his writhing lips. The growl rose to a roar and from the roar words finally took shape.
    I covered my ears with my hands, then removed one hand to gesture imperatively at Ramses. Emerson was cursing in Arabic, and I felt sure the boy was making mental notes of "de colloquial speech."
    Emerson's rolling eyes focused on his son's fascinated face. With a mighty effort he controlled his wrath. He allowed himself the final solace of kicking the door closed. A stream of plaster added itself to the heap already on the floor. Emerson took a long breath, his chest expanding to such an extent, I feared the buttons would pop off his shirt. "Er—hem," he said. "Hello, my boy. Amelia. Did you have a pleasant morning?"
    "Let us eschew the amenities on this occasion," I exclaimed. "Get it off your chest, Emerson, before you explode. Only avoid profanity, if at all possible."
    "It is not possible," Emerson cried in an anguished voice. "I cannot speak without expletives concerning that villain—that vile—that... that—de Morgan!"
    "He has refused you the firman for Dahshoor."
    Emerson kicked a stool, sending it flying across the room. The head of Bastet, which had cautiously protruded from under the bed, vanished again.
    "He means to work at Dahshoor himself this season," said Emerson in a strangled voice. "He had the effrontery to tell me I was too late in applying."
    My lips parted. Before I could speak, Emerson turned a hideous glare upon me. "If you say 'I told you so,' Peabody, I will— I will—kick the bed to splinters!"
    "By all means do so, if it will relieve your feelings, Emerson. I am deeply wounded by your accusation, which I feel sure you would never have made had you been in control of your emotions. You know I abhor the phrase you mentioned and that I never in all the years of our marriage—"
    "The devil you haven't," Emerson snarled.
    "De devil you haven't," echoed Ramses. "Don't you remember, Mama, yesterday on de train from Alexandria, and de day before dat, when Papa forgot—"
    "Ramses!" Emerson turned, more in sorrow than in wrath, to his offending heir. "You must not use such language, particularly to your dear mama. Apologize at once."
    "I apologize," Ramses said. "I meant no offense, Mama, but I do not see what is wrong wit' dat expression. It has a quality of colorful emphasis dat appeals strongly—"
    "Enough, my son."
    "Yes, Papa."
    The silence that ensued was like the hush after a tempest, when the leaves hang limp in the quiet air and nature seems to catch her breath. Emerson sat down on the bed and mopped his streaming brow. His complexion subsided to the handsome walnut shade that is its normal color in Egypt, and a tender, affectionate smile transformed his face. "Were you waiting for me before lunching? That was kind, my dears. Let us go down at once."
    "We must discuss this, Emerson," I said.
    "Certainly, Amelia. We will discuss it over luncheon."
    "Not if you are going to lose your temper. Shepheard's is a respectable hotel. Guests who shout obscenities and throw china across the dining salon—"
    "I cannot imagine where you get such notions, Amelia," Emerson said in a hurt voice. "I never lose my temper. Ah— there is Bastet. That is a very handsome collar she is wearing. What is she doing under