The lady was on the point of
sharing her seat with one of her guests, when Har-hat, who had been
lounging by himself on the parapet, sauntered over to his daughter's
side.
"My father," she said, "the son of Mentu, the first friend of the noble
Hotep."
Kenkenes had noticed, with a chill, the approach of the fan-bearer,
and, angry with himself for his unreasoning perturbation, strove to
greet him composedly. But he could not force himself into
graciousness. The formal obeisance might have been made appropriately
to his bitterest enemy.
"The son of Mentu and I have met before," the fan-bearer declared
laughingly. "But I scarce should have recognized him in this man of
peace had not his stature been impressed upon me in that hour when
first I met him." The fan-bearer paused to enjoy the wonder of his
daughter and the scribe, and the hardening face of Kenkenes.
"But for the agility the gods have seen fit to leave me in mine
advancing years," he continued, "this self-same courteous noble would
have brained me with a boat-hook on an occasion of much merrymaking, a
month agone."
He sat down on the arm of Masanath's chair and shouted with laughter.
With a great effort Kenkenes controlled himself.
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