h laughed heartily at the imaginary picture of Tahuti
Jellicoe, slender-beaked and top-hatted, going about his business in
Lincoln's Inn and the Law Courts.

Insensibly, as we talked, we had drawn near to the mummy of Artemidorus,
and now my companion halted before the case with her thoughtful grey
eyes bent dreamily on the face that looked out at us. I watched her with
reverent admiration. How charming she looked as she stood with her
sweet, grave face turned so earnestly to the object of her mystical
affection! How dainty and full of womanly dignity and grace! And then,
suddenly, it was borne in upon me that a great change had come over her
since the day of our first meeting. She had grown younger, more girlish,
and more gentle. At first she had seemed much older than I; a sad-faced
woman, weary, solemn, enigmatic, almost gloomy, with a bitter, ironic
humour and a bearing distant and cold. Now she was only maidenly and
sweet; tinged, it is true, with a certain seriousness, but frank and
gracious and wholly lovable.

Could the change be due to our growing friendship? As I asked myself the
question, my heart leaped with a new-born hope. I yearned to tell her
all that she was to me--all that I hoped we might be to one another in
the years to come.

At length I ventured to break in upon her reverie.

"What are you thinking about so earnestly, fair lady?"

She turned quickly with a bright smile and sparkling eyes that looked
frankly into mine. "I was wondering," said she, "if he was jealous of my
new friend. But what a baby I am to talk such nonsense!"

She laughed softly and happily with just an adorable hint of shyness.

"Why should he be jealous?" I asked.

"Well, you see, before--we were friends, he had me all to himself. I
have never had a man-friend before--except my father--and no really
intimate friend at all. And I was very lonely in those days, after our
troubles had befallen. I am naturally solitary, but still, I am only a
girl; I am not a philosopher. So when I felt very lonely, I used to come
here and look at Artemidorus and make believe that he knew all the
sadness of my life and sympathised with me. It was very silly, I know,
but yet, somehow it was a real comfort to me."

"It was not silly of you at all. He must have been a good man, a gentle,
sweet-faced man who had won the love of those who knew him, as this
beautiful memorial tells us; and it was wise and good of you to sweeten
the bitterness o