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Updated: June 25, 2025
She dried the tear-stained little face with a big handkerchief, and rocked her child to the rhythm of the music which drifted from the hall, borne by the night breeze, through the open window, until the sobs had ceased. And in the ball-room the Thistleton family nodded their heads sagely to the rhythm of the same music. "I am sure she didn't see Mr. Kelham and Sybil, Mamma," Ellen was saying.
The duchess had been put into the train for Port Said by Ben Kelham, who, inwardly kicking at her sage advice, looked as despondent as a camel who considers its strength unequal to its burden. "Cheer up, lad," she cried as the train moved off. "Cheer up; something is sure to happen before long." Which was a perfectly safe prophecy to make where Damaris was concerned.
Just an hour before they arrived, Ben Kelham had started from the Gate of To-morrow to find his school-mate, Hugh Carden Ali, at his Tents of Purple and of Gold. "Sweet is true love tho' given in vain, in vain; And sweet is death who puts an end to pain."
He sat drinking coffee with jolly Sybil Sidmouth and her nerve-stricken stepmother in the lounge of the Savoy Hotel in Assouan just at the moment when Damaris sat herself down on the broken column in the Hypostyle Hall. "Jolly bad luck we've had, haven't we?" said Sybil. Kelham nodded his head. The last post had come in, with nothing for him but a few letters from home.
Irja!" And he reared and wheeled in the direction from whence it came, then raced to where he saw the girl standing. He stamped, and whinnied, and nuzzled her hand and her shoulder as she stood in her lover's arms. "Tell me you will marry me, sweetheart," Ben Kelham was saying, with one hand on the stallion's bridle. "Say it, Damaris."
There was a strange insistency in the repeated question and a deep anxiety in his eyes, which passed as Kelham laughed. It was the genuine, honest laugh of the man who loves and is willing to shoulder the burdens, great and small, which love brings in her train. "You say there is no 'have-been' in love, Carden. I say there is no question of forgiveness in love.
These two delightful courts, designed by Architect George W. Kelham, are like great alcoves in the south wall of the main group. The Court of Flowers faces Festival Hall, whereas the Court of Palms faces the Palace of Horticulture. Each court is flanked at its outer angles by towers, which form an indispensable element in the south facade and in the courts themselves.
Ben Kelham placed his hand upon the chequered curtain, which swung back at his touch. "Is this where you sleep, Carden? I never thought you had another room behind." "It is the room in which I make my ablutions prescribed by Mohammed the Prophet of Allah who is God, at the hour of prayer."
You either love or you do not love. Do you?" Ben Kelham nodded his head. "Then, if you do, why, in the name of Allah who is your God as well as mine, are you here? Why are you not at the feet of this woman, stricken with wonder and humility before the gifts the great God has given you?
Go to her; tarry not; go and heal the wound to her pride, her heart, her love, lest in her pain she should fly to the first hand for succour." Ben Kelham sprang to his feet. "Do you think, if my love was returned, Carden, that I should be here?" "Love!" The man's voice was not raised one tone, but the tent vibrated with the passionate words.
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