it was the morning of the start to petra.

sarah came down to find a big masterful woman with a rocking-horse nose, whom she had

already noticed in the hotel, outside the main entrance, objecting fiercely to the size of the car.

‘a great deal too small! four passengers? and a dragoman? then, of course, we must have a

much larger saloon. please take that car away and return with one of an adequate size.’

in vain did the representative of messrs castle raise his voice in explanation. that was the size

of car always provided. it was really a most comfortable car. a larger car was not suitable for desert

travel. the large woman, metaphorically speaking, rolled over him like a large steamroller.

then she turned her attention to sarah.

‘miss king? i am lady westholme. i am sure you agree with me that that car was grossly

inadequate as to size?’

‘well,’ said sarah cautiously, ‘i agree that a larger one would be more comfortable!’

the young man from castle’s murmured that a larger car would add to the price.

‘the price,’ said lady westholme firmly, ‘is inclusive, and i shall certainly refuse to sanction

any addition to it. your prospectus distinctly states “in comfortable saloon car”. you will keep to the

terms of your agreement.’

recognizing defeat, the young man from castle’s murmured something about seeing what he

could do and wilted away from the spot.

lady westholme turned to sarah, a smile of triumph on her weather-beaten countenance, her

large red rocking-horse nostrils dilated exultantly.

lady westholme was a very well-known figure in the english political world. when lord

westholme, a middle-aged, simple-minded peer whose only interests in life were hunting, shooting

and fishing, was returning from a trip to the united states, one of his fellow passengers was a mrs

vansittart. shortly afterwards mrs vansittart became lady westholme. the match was often cited as

one of the examples of the danger of ocean voyages. the new lady westholme lived entirely in

tweeds and stout brogues, bred dogs, bullied the villagers and forced her husband pitilessly into

public life. it being borne in upon her, however, that politics were not lord westholme’s métier in

life and never would be, she graciously allowed him to resume his sporting activities and herself

stood for parliament. being elected with a substantial majority, lady westholme threw herself with

vigour into political life, being especially active at question time. cartoons of her soon began to

appear (always a sure sign of success). as a public figure she stood for the old-fashioned values of

family life, welfare work amongst women, and was an ardent supporter of the league of nations. she

had decided views on questions of agriculture, housing and slum clearance. she was much

respected and almost universally disliked! it was highly possible that she would be given an under-

secretaryship when her party returned to power. at the moment a liberal government (owing to a

split in the national government between labour and conservatives) was somewhat unexpectedly in

power.

lady westholme looked with grim satisfaction after the departing car. ‘men always think they

can impose upon women,’ she said.

sarah thought that it would be a brave man who thought he could impose upon lady

westholme! she introduced dr gerard, who had just come out of the hotel.

‘your name is, of course, familiar to me,’ said lady westholme, shaking hands. ‘i was talking

to professor chantereau the other day in paris. i have been taking up the question of the treatment of

pauper lunatics very strongly lately. very strongly indeed. shall we come inside while we wait for a

better car to be obtained?’

a vague little middle-aged lady with wisps of grey hair who was hovering nearby turned out to

be miss amabel pierce, the fourth member of the party. she, too, was swept into the lounge under

lady westholme’s protecting wing.

‘you are a professional woman, miss king?’

‘i’ve just taken my m.b. ’

‘good,’ said lady westholme with condescending approval. ‘if anything is to be accomplished,

mark my words, it is women who will do it.’

uneasily conscious for the first time of her sex, sarah followed lady westholme meekly to a

seat.

there, as they sat waiting, lady westholme informed them that she had refused an invitation to

stay with the high commissioner during her stay in jerusalem. ‘i did not want to be hampered by

officialdom. i wished to look into things by myself.’

‘what things?’ sarah wondered.

lady westholme went on to explain that she was staying at the solomon hotel so as to remain

unhampered. she added that she had made several suggestions to the manager for the more

competent running of his hotel.

‘efficiency,’ said lady westholme, ‘is my watchword.’

it certainly seemed to be! in a quarter of an hour a large and extremely comfortable car arrived

and in due course—after advice from lady westholme as to how the luggage should be stowed—the

party set off.

their first halt was the dead sea. they had lunch at jericho. afterwards when lady westholme,

armed with a baedeker, had gone off with miss pierce, the doctor and the fat dragoman, to do a tour

of old jericho, sarah remained in the garden of the hotel.

her head ached slightly and she wanted to be alone. a deep depression weighed her down—a

depression for which she found it hard to account. she felt suddenly listless and uninterested,

disinclined for sightseeing, bored by her companions. she wished at this moment that she had never

committed herself to this petra tour. it was going to be very expensive and she felt quite sure she

wasn’t going to enjoy it! lady westholme’s booming voice, miss pierce’s endless twitterings, and

the anti- zionist lamentation of the dragoman, were already fraying her nerves to a frazzle. she

disliked almost as much dr gerard’s amused air of knowing exactly how she was feeling.

she wondered where the boyntons were now—perhaps they had gone on to syria—they might

be at baalbek or damascus. raymond—she wondered what raymond was doing. strange how

clearly she could see his face—its eagerness—its diffidence—its nervous tension…

oh, hell! why go on thinking of people she would probably never see again? that scene the

other day with the old woman—what could have possessed her to march up to the old lady and spurt

out a lot of nonsense. other people must have heard some of it. she fancied that lady westholme had

been quite close by. sarah tried to remember exactly what it was she had said. something that

probably sounded quite absurdly hysterical. goodness, what a fool she had made of herself! but it

wasn’t her fault really; it was old mrs boynton’s. there was something about her that made you lose

your sense of proportion.

dr gerard entered and plumped down in a chair, wiping his hot forehead.

‘phew! that woman should be poisoned!’ he declared.

sarah started. ‘mrs boynton?’

‘mrs boynton! no, i meant that lady westholme! it is incredible to me that she has had a

husband for many years and that he has not already done so. what can he be made of, that husband?’

sarah laughed.

‘oh, he’s the “huntin’, fishin’, shootin’ ” kind,’ she explained.

‘psychologically that is very sound! he appeases his lust to kill on the (so- called) lower

creations.’

‘i believe he is very proud of his wife’s activities.’

the frenchman suggested:

‘because they take her a good deal away from home? that is understandable.’ then he went on,

‘what did you say just now? mrs boynton? undoubtedly it would be a very good idea to poison her,

too. undeniably the simplest solution of that family problem! in fact a great many women would be

better poisoned. all women who have grown old and ugly.’

he made an expressive face.

sarah cried out, laughing:

‘oh, you frenchmen! you’ve got no use for any woman who isn’t young and attractive.’

gerard shrugged his shoulders.

‘we are more honest about it, that is all. englishmen, they do not get up in tubes and trains for

ugly women—no, no.’

‘how depressing life is,’ said sarah with a sigh.

‘there is no need for you to sigh, mademoiselle.’

‘well, i feel thoroughly disgruntled today.’

‘naturally.’

‘what do you mean—naturally?’ snapped sarah.

‘you could find the reason very easily if you examine your state of mind honestly.’

‘i think it’s our fellow travelers who depress me,’ said sarah. ‘it’s awful, isn’t it, but i do hate

women! when they’re inefficient and idiotic like miss pierce, they infuriate me—and, when they’re

efficient like lady westholme, they annoy me more still.’

‘it is, i should say, unavoidable that these two people should annoy you. lady westholme is

exactly fitted to the life she leads and is completely happy and successful. miss pierce has worked for

years as a nursery governess and has suddenly come into a small legacy which has enabled her to

fulfill her life-long wish and travel. so far, travel has lived up to her expectations. consequently you,

who have just been thwarted in obtaining what you want, naturally resent the existence of people who

have been more successful in life than you are.’

‘i suppose you’re right,’ said sarah gloomily. ‘what a horribly accurate mind-reader you are. i

keep trying to humbug myself and you won’t let me.’

at this moment the others returned. the guide seemed the most exhausted of the three. he was

quite subdued and hardly exuded any information on the way to amman. he did not even mention

the jews. for which everyone was profoundly grateful. his voluble and frenzied account of their

iniquities had done much to try everyone’s temper on the journey from jerusalem.

now the road wound upward from the jordan, twisting and turning, with clumps of oleanders

showing rose-coloured flowers.

they reached amman late in the afternoon and after a short visit to the graeco-roman theatre

went to bed early. they were to make an early start the next morning as it was a full day’s motor run

across the desert to ma’an.

they left soon after eight o’clock. the party was inclined to be silent. it was a hot airless day

and by noon when a halt was made for a picnic lunch to be eaten, it was really stiflingly hot. the

irritation of a hot day of being boxed up closely with three other human beings had got a little on

everyone’s nerves.

lady westholme and dr gerard had a somewhat irritable argument over the league of nations.

lady westholme was a fervent supporter of the league. the frenchman, on the other hand, chose to

be witty at the league’s expense. from the attitude of the league concerning abyssinia and spain

they passed to the litvania boundary dispute of which sarah had never heard and from there to the

activities of the league in suppressing dope gangs.

‘you must admit they have done wonderful work. wonderful!’ snapped lady westholme.

dr gerard shrugged his shoulders.

‘perhaps. and at wonderful expense too!’

‘the matter is a very serious one. under the dangerous drugs act—’ the argument waged on.

miss pierce twittered to sarah: ‘it is really most interesting travelling with lady westholme.’

sarah said acidly: ‘is it?’ but miss pierce did not notice the acerbity and twittered happily on.

‘i’ve so often seen her name in the papers. so clever of women to go into public life and hold

their own. i’m always so glad when a woman accomplishes something!’

‘why?’ demanded sarah ferociously.

miss pierce’s mouth fell open and she stammered a little.

‘oh, because—i mean—just because—well—it’s so nice that women are able to do things!’

‘i don’t agree,’ said sarah. ‘it’s nice when any human being is able to accomplish something

worth while! it doesn’t matter a bit whether it’s a man or a woman. why should it?’

‘well, of course—’ said miss pierce. ‘yes, i confess—of course, looking at it in that light—’

but she looked slightly wistful. sarah said more gently:

‘i’m sorry, but i do hate this differentiation between the sexes. “the modern girl has a

thoroughly business-like attitude towards life.” that sort of thing. it’s not a bit true! some girls are

business-like and some aren’t.

some men are sentimental and muddle-headed, others are clear-headed and logical. there are

just different types of brains. sex only matters where sex is directly concerned.’

miss pierce flushed a little at the word sex and adroitly changed the subject.

‘one can’t help wishing that there were a little shade,’ she murmured. ‘but i do think all this

emptiness is so wonderful, don’t you?’

sarah nodded.

yes, she thought, the emptiness was marvellous…healing…peaceful…no human beings to

agitate one with their tiresome inter-relationships…no burning personal problems! now, at last, she

felt, she was free of the boyntons. free of that strange compelling wish to interfere in the lives of

people whose orbit did not remotely touch her own. she felt soothed and at peace. here was

loneliness, emptiness, spaciousness…in fact, peace…

only, of course, one wasn’t alone to enjoy it. lady westholme and dr gerard had finished with

drugs and were now arguing about guileless young women who were exported in a sinister manner to

argentinian cabarets. dr gerard had displayed throughout the conversation a levity which lady

westholme, who, being a true politician, had no sense of humour, found definitely deplorable.

‘we go on now, yes?’ announced the tarbrushed dragoman, and began to talk about the

iniquities of jews again.

it was about an hour off sunset when they reached ma’an at last. strange wild-faced men

crowded round the car. after a short halt they went on.

looking over the flat desert country, sarah was at a loss as to where the rocky stronghold of

petra could be. surely they could see for miles and miles all round them? there were no mountains,

no hills anywhere. were they, then, still many miles from their journey’s end?

they reached the village of ain musa where the cars were to be left. here horses were waiting

for them—sorry-looking thin beasts. the inadequacy of her striped washing-frock disturbed miss

pierce greatly. lady westholme was sensibly attired in riding breeches, not perhaps a particularly

becoming style to her type of figure, but certainly practical.

the horses were led out of the village along a slippery path with loose stones. the ground fell

away and the horses zig-zagged down. the sun was close on setting.

sarah was very tired with the long, hot journey in the car. her senses felt dazed. the ride was

like a dream. it seemed to her afterwards that it was like the pit of hell opening at one’s feet. the

way wound down—down into the ground. the shapes of rock rose up round them—down, down into

the bowels of the earth, through a labyrinth of red cliffs. they towered now on either side. sarah felt

stifled—menaced by the ever-narrowing gorge.

she thought confusedly to herself: ‘down into the valley of death—down into the valley of

death…’

on and on. it grew dark—the vivid red of the walls faded—and still on, winding in and out,

imprisoned, lost in the bowels of the earth.

she thought: ‘it’s fantastic and unbelievable…a dead city.’

and again like a refrain came the words: ‘the valley of death…’

lanterns were lit now. the horses wound along through the narrow ways. suddenly they came

out into a wide space—the cliffs receded. far ahead of them was a cluster of lights.

‘that is camp!’ said the guide.

the horses quickened their pace a little—not very much—they were too starved and dispirited

for that, but they showed just a shade of enthusiasm. now the way ran along a gravelly water-bed.

the lights grew nearer.

they could see a cluster of tents, a higher row up against the face of a cliff. caves, too,

hollowed out in the rock.

they were arriving. bedouin servants came running out.

sarah stared up at one of the caves. it held a sitting figure. what was it? an idol? a gigantic

squatting image?

no, that was the flickering lights that made it loom so large. but it must be an idol of some kind,

sitting there immovable, brooding over the place…

and then, suddenly her heart gave a leap of recognition.

gone was the feeling of peace—of escape—that the desert had given her. she had been led from

freedom back into captivity. she had ridden down into this dark winding valley and here, like an

archpriestess of some forgotten cult, like a monstrous swollen female buddha, sat mrs boynton…