Possibly," he ended shrewdly, "it is the common
imitation which does _not_ resist impact and heat. At any rate they are
pretty. How much?" he demanded of the vendor, a bright-eyed Egyptian
waiting patiently until our conference should cease.
"Twenty shillings," he replied promptly.
The professor shook with one of his cavernous chuckles.
"Too much," he observed, and handed the necklace back through the
window.
The Egyptian would by no means receive it.
"Keep! keep!" he implored, thrusting the mass of red upon the professor
with both hands. "How much you give?"
"One shilling," announced the professor firmly.
The coral necklace lay on the edge of the table throughout most of our
leisurely meal. The vendor argued, pleaded, gave it up, disappeared in
the crowd, returned dramatically after an interval. The professor ate
calmly, chuckled much, and from time to time repeated firmly the words,
"One shilling." Finally, at the cheese, he reached out, swept the coral
into his pocket, and laid down two shillings. The Egyptian deftly
gathered the coin, smiled cheerfully, and produced a glittering veil, in
which he tried in vain to enlist Billy's interest.
For coffee and cigars we moved to the terrace outside. Here an orchestra
played, the peoples of many nations sat at little tables, the peddlers,
fakirs, jugglers, and fortune-tellers swarmed. A half-dozen postal cards
seemed sufficient to set a small boy up in trade, and to imbue him with
all the importance and insistence of a merchant with jewels.
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