Mrs. Armine at first stood perfectly still looking at the monster.  Then she made Nigel a sign to spread her dust-cloak upon the ridge of the sand, and she sat down on it, and looked again.  She did not speak.  The pallor of the twilight began to grow dusky, as if into its yellow grey and grey white, from some invisible source a shadowy black was filtering.  A cool air stirred, coming from far away where the sands stretch out towards the Gold Coast.  It failed, then came again, with a slightly greater force, a more definite intention.

Nigel was standing, but presently, as Ruby did not move, he sat down beside her, and clasped his brown hands round his knees so tightly that they went white at the knuckles.  He stole a glance at her, and thought that her face looked strangely fixed and stern, almost cruel in its repose, and he turned his eyes once more towards the Sphinx.

And then he forgot Ruby, he forgot Egypt, he forgot everything except that greatest creation which man has ever accomplished; that creation which by its inexorable calm and prodigious power rouses in some hearts terror and sets peace in some, stirs some natures to aspiration, and crushes others to the ground with an overwhelming sense of their impotence, their smallness, their fugitive existence, and their dark and mysterious fate.

Upon Mrs. Armine the effect of the Sphinx, whatever it might have been at a less critical moment in her life, at this moment was cruel.  The storm had broken upon her and she faced the uttermost calm.  She was the prey of conflicting forces, wild beasts of which herself was the cage.  And she was confronted by the beast of the living rock which, in its almost ironic composure, its power purged of passion, did it deign to be aware of her she felt could only, with a strange stillness, mock her.  She was a believer only in the little life, and here lay the conception of Eternity, struck out of the stone of the waste by man, to say to her with its motionless lips, “Thou fool!” And as she had within her resolution, will, and an unsleeping vanity, this power which confronted her not only dimly distressed, but angered her.  She felt angry with Nigel.  She forgot, or chose not to remember, that the Sphinx was the wonder of the world, and she said to herself that she knew very well why Nigel had brought her by night to see it.  He had brought her to be chastened, he had brought her to be rebuked.  In the heat of her nervous fancy it almost seemed to her for a moment as if he had divined something of the truth that was in her, truth that struck hard at him, and his hopes of happiness, and all his moral designs, and as if he had brought her to be punished by the Sphinx.  In the grasp of the monster she writhed, and she hated herself for writhing.  Once in her presence Baroudi had sneered at the Sphinx.  Now she remembered his very words:  “We Egyptians, we have other things to do than to go and stare at the Sphinx.  We prefer to enjoy our lives while we can, and not