“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.