heads.

Any ordinary civilised men would have been stunned by such blows, for they fell on the bare foreheads of the Arabs; but the objects of the American’s wrath merely skulked away; and the others, convinced by the only arguments which they understood, followed in pursuit of victims who might be less pugnacious.

It is hard for a man to be at once tender and pugnacious—to be sentimental, while he is putting forth his physical strength with all the violence in his power.  It is difficult, also, for him to be gentle instantly after having been in a rage.  So he changed his tactics at the moment, and came to the point at once in a manner befitting his present state of mind.

“Those vile wretches have put me in such a heat,” he said, “that I hardly know what I am saying.  But the fact is this, Miss Damer, I cannot leave Cairo without knowing—.  You understand what I mean, Miss Damer.”

“Indeed I do not, Mr. Ingram; except that I am afraid you mean nonsense.”

“Yes, you do; you know that I love you.  I am sure you must know it.  At any rate you know it now.”

“Mr. Ingram, you should not talk in such a way.”

“Why should I not?  But the truth is, Fanny, I can talk in no other way.  I do love you dearly.  Can you love me well enough to go and be my wife in a country far away from your own?”

Before she left the top of the Pyramid Fanny Damer had said that she would try.

Mr. Ingram was now a proud and happy man, and seemed to think the steps of the Pyramid too small for his elastic energy.  But Fanny feared that her troubles were to come.  There was papa—that terrible bugbear on all such occasions.  What would papa say?  She was sure her papa would not allow her to marry and go so far away from her own family and country.  For herself, she liked the Americans—always had liked them; so she said;—would desire nothing better than to live among them.  But papa!  And Fanny sighed as she felt that all the recognised miseries of a young lady in love were about to fall upon her.

Nevertheless, at her lover’s instance, she promised, and declared, in twenty different loving phrases, that nothing on earth should ever make her false to her love or to her lover.

“Fanny, where are you?  Why are you not ready to come down?” shouted Mr. Damer, not in the best of tempers.  He felt that he had almost been unkind to an unprotected female, and his heart misgave him.  And yet it would have misgiven him more had he allowed himself to be entrapped by Miss Dawkins.

“I am quite ready, papa,” said Fanny, running up to him—for it may be understood that there is quite room enough for a young lady to run on the top of the Pyramid.

“I am sure I don’t know where you have been all the time,” said Mr. Damer; “and where are those two boys?”

Fanny pointed to the top of the other Pyramid, and there they were, conspicuous with their red caps.

“And M. Delabordeau?”

“Oh! he has gone down, I think;—no, he is there with Miss Dawkins.”  And in truth Miss Dawkins was leaning on his arm most affectionately, as she stooped over and looked down upon the ruins below her.

“And where is that fellow, Ingram?” said Mr. Damer, looking about him.  “He is always out of the way when he’s wanted.”

To this Fanny said nothing.  Why should she?  She was not Mr. Ingram’s keeper.

And then they all descended, each again with his proper number of Arabs to hurry and embarrass him; and they found Mr. Damer at the bottom, like a piece of sugar covered with flies.  She was heard to declare afterwards that she would not go to the Pyramids again, not if they were to be given to her for herself, as ornaments for her garden.

The picnic lunch among the big stones at the foot of the Pyramid was not a very gay affair.  Miss Dawkins talked more than any one else, being determined to show that she bore her defeat gallantly.  Her conversation, however, was chiefly addressed to M. Delabordeau, and he seemed to think more of his cold chicken and ham than he did of her wit and attention.

Fanny hardly spoke a word.  There was her father before her and she could not eat, much less talk, as she thought of all that she would have to go through.  What would he say to the idea of having an American for a son-in-law?

Nor was Mr. Ingram very lively.  A young man when he has been just accepted, never is so.  His happiness under the present circumstances was, no doubt, intense, but it was of a silent nature.

And then the interior of the building had to be visited.  To tell the truth none of the party would have cared to perform this feat had it not been for the honour of the thing.  To have come from Paris, New York, or London, to the Pyramids, and then not to have visited the very tomb of Cheops, would have shown on the part of all of them an indifference to subjects of interest which would have been altogether fatal to their character as travellers.  And so a party for the interior was made up.

Miss Damer when she saw the aperture through which it was expected that she should descend, at once declared for staying with her mother.  Miss Dawkins, however, was enthusiastic for the journey.  “Persons with so very little command over their nerves might really as well stay at home,” she said to Mr. Ingram, who glowered at her dreadfully for expressing such an opinion about his Fanny.

This entrance into the Pyramids is a terrible task, which should be undertaken by no lady.  Those who perform it have to creep down, and then to be dragged up, through infinite dirt, foul smells, and bad air; and when they have done it, they see nothing.  But they do earn the gratification of saying that they have been inside a Pyramid.

“Well, I’ve done that once,” said Mr. Damer, coming out, “and I do not think that any one will catch me doing it again.  I never was in such a filthy place in my life.”

“Oh, Fanny! I am so glad you did not go; I am sure it is not fit for ladies,” said poor Mrs. Damer, forgetful of her friend Miss Dawkins.

“I should have been ashamed of myself,” said Miss Dawkins, bristling up, and throwing back her head as she stood, “if I had allowed any consideration to have prevented my visiting such a spot.  If it be not improper for men to go there, how can it be improper for women?”

“I did not say improper, my dear,” said Mrs. Damer, apologetically.

“And as for the fatigue, what can a woman be worth who is afraid to encounter as much as I have now gone through for the sake of visiting the last resting-place of such a king as Cheops?”  And Miss Dawkins, as she pronounced the last words, looked round her with disdain upon poor Fanny Damer.

“But I meant the dirt,” said Mrs. Damer.

“Dirt!” ejaculated Miss Dawkins, and then walked away.  Why should she now submit her high tone of feeling to the Damers, or why care longer for their good opinion?  Therefore she scattered contempt around her as she ejaculated the last word, “dirt.”

And then the return home!  “I know I shall never get there,” said Mrs. Damer, looking piteously up into her husband’s face.

“Nonsense, my dear; nonsense; you must get there.”  Mrs. Damer groaned, and acknowledged in her heart that she must,—either dead or alive.

“And, Jefferson,” said Fanny, whispering—for there had been a moment since their descent in which she had been instructed to call him by his Christian name—“never mind talking to me going home.  I will ride by mamma.  Do you go with papa and put him in good humour; and it he says anything about the lords and the bishops, don’t you contradict him, you know.”

What will not a man do for love?  Mr. Ingram promised.

And in this way they started; the two boys led the van; then came Mr. Damer and Mr. Ingram, unusually and unpatriotically acquiescent as to England’s aristocratic propensities; then Miss Dawkins riding,