plus my Egyptian "birth" and the knowledge of Egyptiana I displayed, won me the hearts of the directors, and I knew that in a little while I should be introduced to you.
You had been my closest boyhood friend and college chum; we'd shared almost every experience two men can share; twenty-five years' memories made a bond between us. Somehow, I felt when I met you I could make you understand I had been—still was—Lynne Foster. In you I'd find a man against whom I'd not have to be on guard. Perhaps, even, you'd go with me to Egypt and help me search out slubbia magicians whom we could bribe to change me back into a man.
I knew you'd be on hand when the New Wing was dedicated, and I timed my coming to meet you when you'd be almost ready to go home.
And then, my dear, we met.
It was el ouad—destiny. The moment that I raised my eyes to yours I knew. I was no longer a man imprisoned in a woman's body, but a woman, every inch—every cell and fiber—of me. When I put my hand in yours I felt a wild, tumultuous surf of longing breaking on my heart.
But between us hung a sword as merciless and potent as that the Angel held to bar Adam from Paradise. Something sharp, something cold and penetrating as a whetted, two-edged knife, was held between Ismet Foulik Hanum and Hugh Abernathy, and the barrier was the honed steel of my own remembering. For you were really you, while I had been—perhaps still was—Lynne Foster.
The realization of my love for you was like a rack on which my heart was torn to bleeding shreds as we rode home that night. I scarcely slept a moment after we had said goodby, but through the torment which I suffered one thought ran like an anodyne: "He will come tomorrow; he has asked to see me!"
Somehow, it seemed you must see through me; that any minute you would penetrate my disguise and see Lynne Foster underneath the masquerade of woman's flesh. But you didn't. I could see you didn't. In me you saw no one but Ismet Foulik, and with my newborn woman's intuition I could tell you loved me. But I dared not let you tell me so. I wanted you to kiss me—and to kiss you—with a longing which was almost past endurance, but until you knew the truth about me I could not surrender to you. Then, last night, before I had a chance to stop you. . . .
Heart's darling, you have heard my story. If you still want me . . . *****
He was down beside her on the hearth rug and his arms were warm about her as he kissed her hair, her brow, her eyes and lips, her throat, her heart, her little henna-painted hands and feet.
Presently: "You'll forget this terrible obsession, Ismet darling?" he whispered.
"Yes, beloved of my heart, if it will please you."
"You'll never think you are Lynne Foster?"
She lay back in his arms and looked at him, her eyes abrim with tears and worship.
"Ya aini, ya amri—oh, my life, my soul!" she answered in her high, clear voice. "Can't you understand? Ever since that night we met this spring Lynne Foster has been dead!"
