“. . .  I should not like either of my little girls,” she was saying the morning after the visit to the Terrace Temple, “to visit the ruins or stay out unchaperoned after dark.  I am responsible for you, you know, dear, and you are very beautiful and very young.  Of course I know that you are a little unhappy, dear, but other girls have been the same.  So you must not worry.  Everything will come right.  I expect you know all about my Ellen.”  Damaris nodded.  “And everybody is so fond of you.  Would you like to have a long day in bed to-day, dear, or go to Denderah with the girls?  They are thinking of staying for a few days.”

Damaris smiled the radiant smile which made her so attractive, and, rising, put her arms round the motherly old dear’s neck and kissed her, which was an unusual thing for her to do, as she was, as a rule, undemonstrative to coldness.

“I’d love to go to Denderah, if I may take Janie and Wellington.  And I’m truly not worrying; it’s just a tremendous spirit of adventure which drives me to do these awful things.”

So to Denderah she went, with her spirits at highest pitch at the thought of getting away from Luxor for a few days and of seeing the wonderful Temple of Hathor, the goddess of Joy and Youth.

She was in riotous spirits when she arrived at the Hotel Denderah in Kulla, where the lovely porous jugs come from; in fact, so blithe was she that Ellen, inclined to despondency and of a superstitious tendency, remarked: 

“I should calm myself a little, my dear Damaris; such gaiety can only lead to depression, later on.”

But Damaris only laughed.

How good it is that we cannot visualise beforehand the hour in which our tears must flow and our hearts come well-nigh to breaking!

She laughed, she sang, she visited the town, and went to bed early.  She teased Jane Coop the next morning as, perilously perched on donkey-back, she headed the little procession which wended its way through the stretches of earth which later would give a harvest of corn and sweet-scented flowering bean.

She urged the panting bulldog along the three good miles, and laughed at him when, sneezing and coughing, he rubbed his great paws over his face, covered with the cobwebs which floated on the air; but she stopped laughing when she first caught sight of the great arch of crumbling antiquity which is all that is left of the edifice upon the site of which the Temple of Hathor was built; and she stood quite still in the over-powering colonnade, whilst the Thistletons, notebooks in hand, rushed inside in the wake of the guide.  Jane Coop stopped dead at the outer edge of the colonnade.

“I thought you said it was a Temple of Love, dearie:  all white marble, with doves and lovers’-knots and—­and hearts.  It’s a tomb, that’s what it is, and I’m going to sit outside.  I don’t like it; it bodes no good.  Let’s go back, dearie; I don’t like the place or the hotel or the town.  If we go quickly we can catch the first boat.  Let the others stay if they want to.  I’m thinking of you; my heart’s telling me that you must not stop, and that if you do, harm’ll come to you, or somebody.”