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 that Artemidorus worshipped 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, “[Greek:  ARTEMIDORE EUPsUChI].”

“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 realised 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 found wanting.  You have the gift of sympathy, even with a woman’s sentimental fancies.”

I suspected that a good many men would have developed this precious quality under the circumstances, but I refrained from saying so.  There is no use in crying down one’s own wares.  I was glad enough to have earned her good opinion so easily, and when she at length turned away from the case and passed through into the adjoining room, it was a very complacent young man who bore her company.

“Here is Ahkhenaten—­or Khu-en-aten, as the authorities here render the hieroglyphics.”  She indicated a fragment of a coloured relief labelled:  “Portion of a painted stone tablet with a portrait figure of Amen-hetep IV,” and we stopped to look at the frail, effeminate figure of the great king, with his large cranium, his queer, pointed chin and the Aten rays stretching out their weird hands as if caressing him.