I found it lying on the floor of the corridor that led to our sleeping chambers. I was standing there, holding it between my fingertips, when Ramses came out of his room. When he saw what I had in my hand his heavy dark eyebrows lifted, but he waited for me to speak first.

“Another white feather,” I said. “Yours, I presume?”

“Yes, thank you.” He plucked it from my fingers. “It must have fallen from my pocket when I took out my handkerchief. I will put it with the others.”

Except for his impeccably accented English and a certain indefinable air about his bearing (I always say no one slouches quite as elegantly as an Englishman), an observer might have taken my son for one of the Egyptians among whom he had spent most of his life. He had the same wavy black hair and thick lashes, the same bronzed skin. In other ways he bore a strong resemblance to his father, who had emerged from our room in time to hear the foregoing exchange. Like Ramses, he had changed to his working costume of wrinkled flannels and collarless shirt, and as they stood side by side they looked more like elder and younger brother than father and son. Emerson’s tall, broad-shouldered frame was as trim as that of Ramses, and the streak of white hair at each temple emphasized the gleam of his raven locks.

At the moment the resemblance between them was obscured by the difference in their expressions. Emerson’s sapphire-blue orbs blazed; his son’s black eyes were half veiled by lowered lids. Emerson’s brows were drawn together, Ramses’s were raised; Ramses’s lips were tightly compressed, while Emerson’s had drawn back to display his large square teeth.

“Curse it,” he shouted. “Who had the confounded audacity to accuse you of cowardice? I hope you punched him on the jaw!”

“I could hardly have done that, since the kind donor was a lady,” Ramses replied, tucking the white feather carefully into his shirt pocket.

“Who?” I demanded.

“What does it matter? It is not the first I have received, nor will it be the last.”

Since the outbreak of war in August, a good many fowl had been denuded of their plumage by patriotic ladies who presented these symbols of cowardice to young men not in uniform. Patriotism is not a quality I despise, but in my humble opinion it is despicable to shame someone into facing dangers from which one is exempt by reason of gender, age, or physical disability. Two of my nephews and the sons of many of our friends were on their way to France . I would not have held them back, but neither would I have had it on my conscience that I had urged them to go.

I had not been obliged to face that painful choice with my son.

We had sailed for Egypt in October, since my dear Emerson (the greatest Egyptologist of this or any other age) would not have allowed anyone, much less the Kaiser, to interfere with his annual excavations. It was not a retreat from peril; in fact, we might soon be in greater danger than those who remained in England . That the Ottoman Empire would eventually enter the war on the side of Germany and Austro-Hungary no one of intelligence doubted. For years the Kaiser had courted the Sultan, lending him vast amounts of money and building railroads and bridges through Syria and Palestine . Even the German-financed archaeological expeditions in the area were believed to have an ulterior motive. Archaeology offers excellent cover for spying and subversion, and moralists were fond of pointing out that the flag of imperial Germany flew over the site of Megiddo , the biblical Armageddon.

Turkey ’s entry into the war came on November 5, and it was followed by the formal annexation of Egypt by Britain ; the Veiled Protectorate had become a protectorate in reality. The Turks controlled Palestine , and between Palestine and Egypt lay the Sinai and the Suez Canal , Britain ’s lifeline to the east. The capture of the Canal would deal Britain a mortal blow. An invasion of Egypt would surely follow, for the Ottoman Empire had never forgiven or forgotten the loss of its former province. And to the west of Egypt the warlike Senussi tribesmen, armed and trained by Turkey , presented a growing threat to British-occupied Egypt .

By December Cairo was under martial law, the press censored, public assemblages (of Egyptians) forbidden, the Khedive deposed in favor of his more compliant uncle, the nascent nationalist movement suppressed and its leaders sent into exile or prison. These regrettable measures were justified, at least in the eyes of those who enforced them, by the increasing probability of an attack on the Canal. I could understand why nerves in Cairo were somewhat strained, but that was no excuse, in my opinion, for rude behavior to my son.

“It is not fair,” I exclaimed. “I have not seen the young English officials in Cairo rushing off to volunteer. Why has public opinion concentrated on you?”

Ramses shrugged. His foster sister had once compared his countenance to that of a pharaonic statue because of the regularity of his features and their habitual impassivity. At this moment they looked even stonier than usual.

“I have been rather too prone to express in public what I feel about this senseless, wasteful war. It’s probably because I was not properly brought up,” he added seriously. “You never taught me that the young should defer to their elders.”

“I tried,” I assured him.

Emerson fingered the dimple (or cleft, as he prefers to call it) in his chin, as was his habit when deep in thought or somewhat perturbed. “I understand your reluctance to shoot at poor fellows whose only crime is that they have been conscripted by their leaders; but—er—is it true that you refused to join the staff of the new Military Intelligence Department?”

“Ah,” said Ramses thoughtfully. “So that bit of information is now public property? No wonder so many charming ladies have recently added to my collection of feathers. Yes, sir, I did refuse. Would you like me to justify my decision?”

“No,” Emerson muttered.

“Mother?”

“Er—no, it is not necessary.”

“I am greatly obliged to you,” said Ramses. “There are still several hours of daylight left, and I want to get out to the site. Are you coming, sir?”

“Go ahead,” Emerson said. “I’ll wait for your mother.”

“And you?” Ramses looked down at the large brindled feline who had followed him out of his room.

Like all our cats, Seshat had been named after an Egyptian divinity, in this case (appropriately enough) the patroness of writing; like most of them, she bore a strong resemblance to her ancestress Bastet and to the tawny, large-eared animals portrayed in ancient Egyptian paintings. With a few exceptions, our cats were inclined to concentrate their affections on a single individual. Seshat favored Ramses, and kept a close eye on his comings and goings. On this occasion she sat down in a decided manner and stared back at him.

“Very well,” Ramses said. “I will see you later, then.”

He might have been addressing me or the cat, or both. I stepped aside, and he proceeded on his way.

Emerson followed me to our room, and kicked the door shut. After attending a luncheon party at Shepheard’s we had returned to the house to change, but while my husband and son proceeded with this activity I was delayed by a tedious and unnecessary discussion with the cook, who was going through another of his periodic crises des nerves. (At least that is what he would have called it had he been a French chef instead of a turbaned Egyptian.)

I turned round and Emerson began unbuttoning my frock. I have never taken a maid with me to Egypt ; they are more trouble than they are worth, always complaining and falling ill and requiring my medical attention. My ordinary working costume is as comfortable and easy to assume as that of a man, which it rather resembles, for I long ago gave up skirts in favor of trousers and stout boots. The only occasions on which I require assistance are those for which I assume traditional female garb, and Emerson is always more than happy to oblige me.