When I am in one of my philosophical moods, I am inclined to wonder whether all families are as difficult as mine.

I was in such a mood as I dressed for dinner on the penultimate evening of our voyage. We would dock at Alexandria in two days, unless, of course, the ship was sunk by a German torpedo. A winter voyage from England to Egypt is never comfortable; but in that fateful December of 1916, after more than two years of war, the possibility of submarine attack had been added to the perils of rough seas and stormy weather.

I was not thinking of that danger -- for I make it a habit never to worry about matters that are beyond my control -- nor of the difficulty of trying to keep my footing while the floor of the cabin rose and fell and the oil lamps swung wildly on their brackets -- for mine is the sort of mind that rises above such things -- but perhaps these considerations did affect me more than I realized, giving a pessimistic cast to my normally cheerful reflections.

Mind you, I had no legitimate grounds for complaint about my immediate family. My husband, Radcliffe Emerson, is the most distinguished Egyptologist of this or any other era. His sapphirine-blue eyes, the cleft, or dimple, in his strong chin, his thick sable hair, and muscular but symmetrical frame are additional attractions to me and, I regret to say, to innumerable other females.

He has a few minor eccentricities: his command of invective, which has earned him the Egyptian sobriquet of Father of Curses, his explosive temper, his autocratic, arbitrary method of dealing with the authorities of the Service des Antiquités, which had led in the past to our being barred from most of the interesting sites in Egypt ...

Well, but no proud mother could have asked for a better son than mine. Ramses had been named for his Uncle Walter, but everyone called him by the nickname given him by his father in infancy. He was as handsome and intellectually gifted as his father, idealistic, kind, and courageous ... A little too courageous, perhaps? He had been one of the most infuriating children I have ever had the misfortune to encounter, and his reckless disregard for danger, when he believed the cause he supported to be morally right, was one trait that I had been unable to eradicate. The most terrifying of his adventures had occurred during the winter of 1914-15, when he had taken on a secret assignment for the War Office. He and his best friend, David, had completed their mission successfully, but both had been seriously injured, and Ramses's true identity had been exposed to agents of the Central Powers. I had hoped his marriage would sober him, but although he was as passionately attached to his beautiful wife as Emerson was to my humble self, Nefret had not been the calming influence for which I had hoped. She would have thrown herself in front of a charging lion if Ramses were its destined prey, but what I wanted was someone who would prevent him from provoking lions in the first place.

Nefret had been our ward, dear as a daughter, before she married our son. As a firm believer in the equality of the female gender, I could only approve the determination with which she had achieved against considerable odds her goal of qualifying as a surgeon. As a person of high moral principles I could only commend her for spending part of her large fortune in establishing in Cairo a hospital for women that served even the lowest and most despised members of that sex. If only she would consent to settle down -- devote her ardent energies to medicine and to archaeology, and to Ramses -- and perhaps ...

The boat gave a great lurch and I dropped the earring I was endeavoring to insert. With a muttered "Curse it" I lowered myself to hands and knees and began feeling about on the floor -- without, I hardly need say, losing the track of my mental musing.

Honesty compels me to admit that the propensity of my son and daughter to become engaged with individuals who desired to wreak grave bodily harm upon them was not entirely their fault. Emerson and I tended to attract such individuals too. Over the years we had dealt -- effectively, I hardly need add -- with murderers, forgers, tomb robbers, and criminals of various sorts. Several of them had been related to us.

As I crawled under the dressing table in pursuit of the elusive earring, I remembered something Emerson had said about my side of the family, to the effect that not one of them had any redeeming qualities whatever. This was rude, but undeniably correct. One of my nephews had been -- I am happy to employ the past tense -- a thoroughly repellent human being. Sennia, his little daughter by a Cairo prostitute, who had been callously abandoned by her father, was now part of our family.

The boat bounced again and the top of my head came into painful contact with the underside of the dressing table. Since I was alone, with no one to overhear, I permitted myself a few expletives. I do not approve of bad language, but everybody else in the family employs it freely. It is Emerson's fault. He cannot or will not restrain himself and of course the children emulate him. There are times when Nefret's language ...

The cursed earring continued to elude me, but I endeavored, as is my habit, to look on the bright side. Emerson's kin were exemplary human beings: his brother Walter, a true scholar and gentle man; Walter's wife, my close friend Evelyn; and their fine brood of children, in which category I must include the husband of their daughter Lia. David, a talented artist and trained Egyptologist, and Ramses's best friend, was the grandson of our dear departed reis Abdullah. We had missed him terribly the year before, in both his professional and personal capacities.

However, there was Emerson's other brother.

The door burst open and Emerson staggered in. Observing my position, he let out a bellow of alarm, seized me round the waist, and lifted me to my feet -- and off them. "Did you fall, sweetheart? The cursed boat is bouncing like a rubber ball. Speak to me, Peabody."

I was touched by his use of my maiden name, which he employs as a term of approbation and endearment, and by his tender concern, but discomfort compelled me to utter a mild complaint. "I cannot breathe, Emerson, you are squeezing me too tightly."

"Oh." Emerson removed one arm and caught hold of the doorframe.

"I dropped an earring," I explained, after drawing a long breath. "Pray put me down, my dear. I don't want to lose it, it was one of the pair you gave me last Christmas."

"I will find it." Emerson deposited me on the bed and began crawling round the floor. "Stay still or you will brain yourself. Ah -- here you are, my love."

The gem winked and sparkled in his big brown hand. As a general rule I do not care for diamonds -- an antique scarab or a string of mummy beads is much more to my taste -- but Emerson had selected the stones and designed the settings. Having observed that other women seemed to like diamonds -- it had only taken him thirty years to notice this -- he had decided I should have some, too.

"Why have you got yourself up so formally?" he demanded. "No one will dress for dinner tonight, the sea is too rough."

"It is necessary to keep up appearances, especially in times such as these. Have you forgotten the date?"

"Yes," said Emerson, in -- I could only suppose -- a desperate attempt to forestall my suggestion that he assume evening dress. Emerson dislikes the confinement of tightly fitting garments, and I would be the first to admit that his impressive form never shows to better advantage than when he is attired in the wrinkled flannels and open-necked shirts he wears on the dig. I felt obliged to persevere, however.

"It is December the thirty-first, Emerson. We must toast the New Year and pray that 1917 will bring better hopes."

"Bah," said Emerson. "It is an artificial distinction with no meaning. The only significance of January the first is that we will be one day closer to Alexandria. You are fine enough for both of us. That gown becomes you, my love. Is it new?"

It was not, and he knew it -- at least I think he did -- it is difficult to be certain with Emerson, since he remains happily oblivious to things one expects him to notice, and sees things one hopes he will not.

A glance in the mirror gave me little in the way of confirmation of his compliment, for my image was distorted by movement and shadow. However, I know my own appearance well enough -- a form perhaps slightly more rounded than in the distant past, a rather too prominent chin, eyes of steely gray, and black hair that is long and thick but not sleekly shining, despite the hundred strokes of a brush it receives each evening. (In the pages of my private journal I will confess that its color owes a little something to art rather than to nature. Emerson is unaware of this small deception and I have seen no reason to enlighten him.) In short, beautiful I am not -- except in the eyes of my husband.

Softened by this touching thought, I smiled affectionately at him. "No, Emerson, you would be the only person not in evening dress. On this occasion especially it is necessary to display a stiff upper lip and-- "

"Damnation!" Emerson shouted.

With my assistance and a good deal of grumbling, he did as he was told. He then offered me his arm, and the remnants of his ill humor vanished as I clung tightly to it. Emerson likes me to cling to him. I do not do it often, but I doubt I could have kept my footing that night without his support.

We had not seen much of our fellow passengers, of whom there were far fewer than in the happy past. The inclement weather had kept most persons in their bunks. Thanks to the judicious application of whiskey and soda, which is, among other things, an excellent remedy for mal de mer, we had been unaffected, but there was little pleasure in walking the deck in a howling gale.

More people than usual were at dinner that evening. The celebration of the New Year was no doubt the occasion, but few of them looked as if they were in a mood to celebrate. The tightly curtained windows of the dining saloon were a silent reminder of war, and the ship kept rolling about in a disconcerting fashion. Perhaps, I thought hopefully, submarines do not sail in bad weather. I must remember to ask someone.

The others were already at our table; as we wove a somewhat erratic path toward them, Ramses rose, balancing lightly with a hand on the back of his chair. I was pleased to see that he was properly attired in black tie and that Nefret looked particularly lovely in the soft shade of blue that matched her eyes and set off her red-gold hair. The fifth member of the party was tightly wedged between them, in order to prevent her from flying off her chair. Sennia should have been in her cabin with Basima, her nurserymaid, for the hour was late for a seven-year-old, but Basima did not feel well, and Sennia had wanted to be with Ramses on this special occasion -- and she had got her own way, as she often did.

It was not surprising that many people believed my nephew's child to be Ramses's illegitimate daughter, for she had my dark gray eyes and his coloring. Ramses had always looked more like an Egyptian than an English person: wavy black hair, black eyes and thick lashes, skin several shades darker than is common in our island. (I cannot explain this, and I see no reason why I should be obliged to do so.) His looks are very pleasing, and I assure the reader that his fond mother has not been the only female to think so.

He seated himself somewhat hastily and caught Sennia as she slipped sideways. She let out a high-pitched laugh, which sounded very loud in the subdued air of the saloon. Several persons looked and smiled; several others frowned disapprovingly; but that peal of childish laughter had unquestionably relieved some of the tension that filled the room.

"Enjoying this, Little Bird?" Emerson inquired fondly.

"Oh, yes, it's great fun bouncing up and down. And if I spill soup in my lap Aunt Amelia cannot say it is my fault." She gave me a cheeky grin, and I smiled back at her, glad she was too young to share the uneasiness that affected the rest of us. We had thought long and hard about exposing her to the perils of the voyage instead of leaving her in the tender care of Walter and Evelyn; but Sennia had not thought about it at all, she had simply assumed she would come along, and any attempt to prevent her would have led to consequences that were loud and unpleasant. Emerson could not bear to see her cry, and the little witch knew it. She had come into our lives under circumstances that were painful to recall even now, but what a joy she was to us all! She was quite like a grandchild ... the only one ... thus far ...

Nefret caught me staring at her and the color in her face deepened. "Yes, Mother?" she inquired. "Is there a smudge on my nose?"

"Why, no, my dear. I was just thinking how that shade of blue becomes you."

The subject was one into which no person of sensibility could properly probe, and I felt certain I would be the first to be informed.

After Ramses, of course.

A great deal of soup was spilled, and not only by Sennia. Most of the diners stuck it out until the end, however, and after Sennia had finished the light meal which was all I allowed her, she began to fidget and look round. How she had got to know so many of the other passengers I could not imagine, since we had never let her out of our sight, but her waves and smiles were acknowledged by several persons. One was a tall gray-haired gentleman whom I had seen once or twice on deck; his forbidding face broke into a smile and he waved back. Sennia received an even more energetic response from a man seated at the captain's table. He had a round face, as red and wrinkled as a well-preserved winter apple, and he bobbed up and down in his chair, waving, until the young man next to him put a restraining hand on his arm. He was as stiff as the older man -- his father? -- was friendly. Eyeglasses gave him a scholarly look, but he was dressed with foppish elegance, every hair in place.

"Who are they?" I asked Sennia.

"They are Americans. Can I have an ice?"

"May I have an ice. Yes, you may."

"Is the lady his wife?" Nefret asked. "Goodness, look at that frock, and the diamonds, and the rubies."

"Vulgarly large," I said with a sniff.

"I think they are very beautiful," said Miss Sennia. "She let me look at them one day -- it was in the saloon -- but only because Mr. Albion told her to. She is not as nice as he is, and their son is not nice at all." She took firm hold of the bowl and dug her spoon into the pink mound. "Mr. Albion wanted to meet you, but I told him you did not meet people."

"Good girl," said Emerson approvingly.

Between bites Sennia told us about the gray-haired gentleman, who was going out to join a firm in Alexandria, and about several of the other passengers. The storm began to subside, the howls of the wind were not so loud, the motion not quite so violent; but I believe we were all relieved when the attendants came round with champagne and the captain rose to propose a toast. It was somewhat long-winded. I remember only the end.

"To the health of His gracious Majesty and to victory in 1917!"

Somehow I was not surprised to hear a familiar voice amend the statement. "To peace," said Ramses. We drank to that.

As it turned out, we reached Alexandria without being torpedoed, and were met by Selim and Daoud. Selim had replaced his father Abdullah as our reis, or foreman; he and his Uncle Daoud, like Abdullah's other relations, were as close as family, and valued assistants in all our endeavors. They assisted us in resuscitating poor Basima and Gargery, our butler, who had suffered horribly from seasickness the entire time, and Sennia's cat, who had not been seasick but whose normally bad temper was even more strained by long confinement in a room that was in constant motion. It would have been impossible to leave the nasty beast behind because Sennia, and, to a lesser degree, Nefret, were the only persons who could control him. Horus was the only cat with us that year. Seshat, Ramses's erstwhile companion and guardian, had given up a professional career for domesticity. Perhaps she felt she could now trust Nefret to look after him.

Basima brightened as soon as she set foot on dry land, and Gargery, though still unsteady, went off with Daoud to see about the luggage. We had a great deal more than usual this time, for we had reached a momentous decision. Ordinarily we left for Egypt in the autumn and ended our excavation season before the summer heat set in; but this time we had come for an indefinite stay. Emerson, who does not fear man nor beast nor demon of the night on his own account, had declared his nerves were unequal to having the rest of us travel back and forth as long as the submarine menace remained.

"It will get worse before it gets better, mark my words," he had declared. "I don't mind people shooting at us or shutting us up in pyramids or trying to brain us with heavy objects -- that is to say, I don't much like it, but I have become accustomed to it. Having a bloody ship sunk under us by a bloody U-boat is something else again. Call me a coward if you will ..."

None of us did; as Ramses remarked, there was not a man alive who would have dared. I knew how Emerson felt, for I have the same fear of air raids. We had, all of us, been in deadly peril on more than one occasion, and felt quite comfortable about our ability to deal with ordinary human adversaries. To be sure, there were human beings at the control of aeroplanes and submarines, but since one never saw them, one was inclined to think of the machine itself as the enemy -- a remote mechanical menace.

Nor for worlds would I have questioned Emerson's motives in proposing the scheme, but he had always yearned to work year-round in Egypt instead of having to close down the dig in March or April, sometimes when the excavation was at its most interesting. For the past several seasons our archaeological activities had been even more constrained by family matters and by Ramses's undercover work for the War Office. This season Emerson had been awarded the firman for a site in Luxor. It was of all places in Egypt the one we loved best -- the scene of several of our greatest discoveries, our home for many happy years, and the home as well of our dear friends the Vandergelts, who were even then settling in for a long season of excavation.

There was only one objection I could think of to such a splendid prospect. I do not refer to the blistering heat of Luxor in summer -- an objection that would never have occurred to Emerson, who has the constitution of a camel -- but to the fact that we would leave behind for Heaven knew how long our beloved family. The Reader will be cognizant, after my earlier remarks on the subject, that I was not thinking of the members of my side of the family.

"Nonsense," said Emerson, when I mentioned this. "You are hopelessly given to melodrama, Peabody. We are not bidding anyone a final farewell, only prolonging the separation a trifle. Circumstances may change; we will not be completely cut off."

He had readily agreed that we must spend Christmas with our loved ones and we did our best to make a merry time of it, for the sake of the children -- Sennia, and Lia and David's little Dolly, who was just old enough to toddle about. All our surviving nieces and nephews were there: Raddie and his new wife, the widow of a friend who had died in France; Margaret, newly engaged to a young officer; even Willie, on leave from France, who tried, dear lad, to make twice as many jokes to compensate for the absence of his twin brother, Johnny, who had been killed in action the year before. There were tears as well as laughter; the war was too much with us; but we carried it off, I think, and there was one moment of genuine hilarity when Emerson asked David if he had considered coming out later in the season.

"Up to you, of course," he added hastily. "But little Dolly is fit and healthy, and Lia-- "

"She is doing very well," said Nefret. "All things considered."

She smiled at David, whose candid countenance betrayed his relief at her intervention. He had difficulty in refusing Emerson anything, and he had not known how to break the news.

I, of course, had known the moment I set eyes on Lia.

Emerson's jaw dropped. "Oh, good Gad!" he shouted. "Not again! Just like her mother! It must be a hereditary-- "

"Emerson!" I exclaimed.

The reminder was sufficient, for Emerson is really the kindest of men. He managed to choke out a few words of congratulatory import, but everyone had heard his bellow and most of them knew what had occasioned it. Even Evelyn, who had not laughed a great deal since Johnny's death, had to retreat behind the Christmas tree to conceal her mirth. She was well aware that Emerson had never entirely forgiven her for abandoning a promising career as a copier of Egyptian scenes in favor of motherhood.

We would miss David and Lia, and not only for their affectionate companionship; David was one of the best artists and epigraphers in the field and Lia had learned enough about Egyptology to have become a valued assistant. Their absence would leave us somewhat shorthanded that season. I did not allow that to worry me. We would manage somehow. As I stood on the dock at Alexandria, the old joy of being back in Egypt pervaded every atom of my being. We got ourselves and our baggage onto the train for Cairo with only the usual confusion, which was compounded by the presence of the cat. Horus had to sit between Sennia and Nefret, since he refused to tolerate anyone else.

Other members of our Egyptian family awaited us at the station in Cairo. We were soon the center of a shouting, cheering mob, which included not only our friends but practically every Egyptian who happened to be there, all greeting us by our Egyptian names. Emerson disliked formal titles and would not allow our workers to address him as Effendi, but he rather reveled in his well-deserved sobriquet of the Father of Curses. Many Egyptians still called me Sitt Hakim, though a lady doctor I was not; however, in my early days in Egypt, when medical services for the fellahin were practically nonexistent, even my limited medical skills were appreciated. The title should have been Nefret's, but she had long been known as Nur Misur, "Light of Egypt"; and Ramses was Brother of Demons -- a tribute to his supposedly supernatural powers.

Emerson was soon so enveloped by well-wishers that only his head (hatless, as usual) showed above the crowd, some of whom attempted to embrace him while others knelt for his blessing (and baksheesh).

All at once Emerson's voice rose in a vehement swearword. "Stop him!" he shouted, spinning round in a circle and swatting his admirers away with wide sweeps of his arms. "Where did he go?"

"Why, Emerson, what is the matter?" I demanded, hastening to his side.

Red-faced and shaking with rage, Emerson invoked the Creator in a manner of which I thoroughly disapprove. "He was here a second ago. Dressed in rags, smelling like a camel, squatting at my feet ... Where is he?"

"Vanished," I said, as the crowd again closed in. "Did he speak to you?"

"Oh, yes, he spoke. 'Welcome back, brother! And thank you.' " Said Emerson, between clenched teeth, "I had just given him fifty piastres."

Emerson's other brother. Strictly speaking, he was a half brother, the son of Emerson's father and a lady who had had the misfortune not to be married to that gentleman. Only recently had we discovered the true identity of the man who had been for many years our most formidable opponent, a master of disguise and the head of a ring of criminals that specialized in tomb robbing and antiquities fraud; and the additional, equally astonishing fact that Sethos, as he chose to be called, was one of Britain's most valued secret agents. These revelations had forced us to reevaluate a relationship that had been marked by considerable acrimony. As I pointed out to Emerson, one cannot wholly despise a man who has risked his life for us and for his country.

I made the point again as my seething spouse spun round and round in a vain attempt to locate the insolent beggar. Ramses and Nefret hastened to us, demanding to know what had happened. A few brief sentences of explanation sufficed; they were only too well acquainted with Sethos's skill at disguise and bizarre sense of humor. Ramses's enigmatic countenance remained unmoved except for a faint line between his brows, but Nefret's dimples were very much in evidence. She had a certain weakness for the man. Most women did, and Sethos was not above exploiting it for his own advantage.

There was nothing to be done about locating him in that mob, so, with the assistance of the children, I forced Emerson into a carriage and persuaded him to delay discussion of the matter until we had got ourselves settled into the hotel.

Although he was anxious to get on to Luxor, Emerson had agreed to spend a few days in Cairo catching up on the news. Press censorship was so strict, we had only the faintest idea of what had been going on in our part of the world. We were staying at Shepheard's; and it was with a sense of agreeable nostalgia that I found myself once again in the ambience that had provided the prelude to so many remarkable experiences. The villain Vincey (and his cat) searching our luggage in the bedroom; the Master Criminal, aka Sethos, aka (had I but known) my brother-in-law, slipping a sleeping potion into my wine in the dining saloon ...