from the body."

"Yes," I agreed, "and that is the only fair way to judge a religious
system, by taking the main beliefs for granted. But what a business it
must have been, bringing all these things from Egypt to London."

"It is worth the trouble, though, for it is a fine and instructive
collection. And the work is all very good of its kind. You notice
that the Ushabti figures and the heads that form the stoppers of the
Canopic jars are quite finely modeled. The mummy itself, too, is
rather handsome, though that coat of bitumen on the back doesn't
improve it. But Sebek-hotep must have been a fine-looking man."

"The mask on the face is a portrait, I suppose?"

"Yes; in fact, it's rather more. To some extent it is the actual face
of the man himself. This mummy is enclosed in what is called a
cartonnage, that is a case molded on the figure. The cartonnage was
formed of a number of layers of linen or papyrus united by glue or
cement, and when the case had been fitted to a mummy it was molded to
the body, so that the general form of the features and limbs was often
apparent. After the cement was dry the case was covered with a thin
layer of stucco and the face modeled more completely, and then
decorations and inscriptions were painted on. So that, you see, in a
cartonnage, the body was sealed up like a nut in its shell, unlike the
more ancient forms in which the mummy was merely rolled up and enclosed
in a wooden coffin."

At this moment there smote upon our ears a politely protesting voice
announcing in sing-song tones that it was closing time; and
simultaneously a desire for tea suggested the hospitable milk-shop.
With leisurely dignity that ignored the official who shepherded us
along the galleries, we made our way to the entrance, still immersed in
conversation on matters sepulchral.

It was rather earlier than our usual hour for leaving the Museum and,
moreover, it was our last day--for the present. Wherefore we lingered
over our tea to an extent that caused the milk-shop lady to view us
with some disfavor, and when at length we started homeward, we took so
many short cuts that six o'clock found us no nearer our destination
than Lincoln's Inn Fields; whither we had journeyed by a slightly
indirect route that traversed (among other places) Russell Square, Red
Lion Square, with the quaint passage of the same name, Bedford Row,
Jockey's Fields, Hand Court, and Great Turnstile.

It was in the last thoro