mrs otterbourne, readjusting the turban of native material that she wore draped round her head,

said fretfully:

"i really don't see why we shouldn't go on to egypt. i'm sick and tired of jerusalem."

as her daughter made no reply, she said, "you might at least answer when you're spoken to."

rosalie otterbourne was looking at a newspaper reproduction of a face. below it was printed:

mrs simon doyle, who before her marriage was the well-known society beauty, miss linnet

ridgeway. mr and mrs doyle are spending their holiday in egypt.

rosalie said, "you'd like to move on to egypt, mother?"

"yes, i would," mrs otterbourne snapped. "i consider they've treated us in a most peculiar fashion

here. my being here is an advertisement - i ought to get a special reduction in terms. when i hinted

as much, i consider they were most impertinent - most impertinent. i told them exactly what i

thought of them."

the girl sighed. she said: "one place is very like another. i wish we could go right away."

"and this morning," went on mrs otterbourne, "the manager actually had the impertinence to tell

me that all the rooms had been booked in advance and that he would require ours in two days'

time."

"so we've got to go somewhere."

"not at all. i'm quite prepared to fight for my rights."

rosalie murmured: "i suppose we might as well go on to egypt. it doesn't make any difference."

"it's certainly not a matter of life or death," agreed mrs otterbourne.

but there she was quite wrong - for a matter of life and death was exactly what it was.