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 of your life with the fragrance of this human love that blossoms in the dust after the lapse of centuries.  No, you were not silly, and Artemidorus is not jealous of your new friend.”

“Are you sure?” She still smiled as she asked the question, but her glance was soft—­almost tender—­and there was a note of whimsical anxiety in her voice.

“Quite sure.  I give you my confident assurance.”

She laughed gaily.  “Then,” said she, “I am satisfied, for I am sure you know.  But here is a mighty telepathist who can read the thoughts even of a mummy.  A most formidable companion.  But tell me how you know.”