o me. Except that it was executed in
tempera instead of oil, it differed in no respect from modern work.
There was nothing archaic or ancient about it. With its freedom of
handling and its correct rendering of light and shade, it might have
been painted yesterday; indeed, enclosed in an ordinary gilt frame, it
might have passed without remark in an exhibition of modern portraits.

Miss Bellingham observed my admiration and smiled approvingly.

"It is a charming little portrait, isn't it?" she said; "and such a
sweet face too; so thoughtful and human, with just a shade of
melancholy. But the whole thing is full of charm. I fell in love with
it the first time I saw it. And it is so Greek!"

"Yes, it is, in spite of the Egyptian gods and symbols."

"Rather because of them, I think," said she. "There we have the
typical Greek attitude, the genial, cultivated eclecticism that
appreciated the fitness of even the most alien forms of art. There is
Anubis standing beside the bier; there are Isis and Nephthys, and there
below Horus and Tahuti. But we can't suppose Artemidorus worshiped or
believed in those gods. They are there because they are splendid
decoration and perfectly appropriate in character. The real feeling of
those who loved the dead man breaks out in the inscription." She
pointed to a band below the pectoral, where, in gilt capital letters,
was written the two words, "_ARTEMIDORE EYPSYCHI_."

"Yes," I said, "it is very dignified and very human."

"And so sincere and full of real emotion," she added. "I find it
unspeakably touching. 'O Artemidorus, farewell!' There is the real
note of human grief, the sorrow of eternal parting. How much finer it
is than the vulgar boastfulness of the Semitic epitaphs, or our own
miserable, insincere make-believe of the 'Not lost but gone before'
type. He was gone from them for ever; they would look on his face and
hear his voice no more; they realized that this was their last
farewell. Oh, there is a world of love and sorrow in those two simple
words!"

For some time neither of us spoke. The glamour of this touching
memorial of a long-buried grief had stolen over me, and I was content
to stand silent by my beloved companion and revive, with a certain
pensive pleasure, the ghosts of human emotions over which so many
centuries had rolled. Presently she turned to me with a frank smile.
"You have been weighed in the balance of friendship," she said, "and
not fo