alas! alone; after her, M. Delabordeau, also alone,—the ungallant Frenchman!  And the rear was brought up by Mrs. Damer and her daughter, flanked on each side by a dragoman, with a third dragoman behind them.

And in this order they went back to Cairo, riding their donkeys, and crossing the ferry solemnly, and, for the most part, silently.  Mr. Ingram did talk, as he had an important object in view,—that of putting Mr. Damer into a good humour.

In this he succeeded so well that by the time they had remounted, after crossing the Nile, Mr. Damer opened his heart to his companion on the subject that was troubling him, and told him all about Miss Dawkins.

“I don’t see why we should have a companion that we don’t like for eight or ten weeks, merely because it seems rude to refuse a lady.”

“Indeed, I agree with you,” said Mr. Ingram; “I should call it weak-minded to give way in such a case.”

“My daughter does not like her at all,” continued Mr. Damer.

“Nor would she be a nice companion for Miss Damer; not according to my way of thinking,” said Mr. Ingram.

“And as to my having asked her, or Mrs. Damer having asked her!  Why, God bless my soul, it is pure invention on the woman’s part!”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Mr. Ingram; “I must say she plays her game well; but then she is an old soldier, and has the benefit of experience.”  What would Miss Dawkins have said had she known that Mr. Ingram called her an old soldier?

“I don’t like the kind of thing at all,” said Mr. Damer, who was very serious upon the subject.  “You see the position in which I am placed.  I am forced to be very rude, or—”

“I don’t call it rude at all.”

“Disobliging, then; or else I must have all my comfort invaded and pleasure destroyed by, by, by—”  And Mr. Damer paused, being at a loss for an appropriate name for Miss Dawkins.

“By an unprotected female,” suggested Mr. Ingram.

“Yes, just so.  I am as fond of pleasant company as anybody; but then I like to choose it myself.”

“So do I,” said Mr. Ingram, thinking of his own choice.

“Now, Ingram, if you would join us, we should be delighted.”

“Upon my word, sir, the offer is too flattering,” said Ingram, hesitatingly; for he felt that he could not undertake such a journey until Mr. Damer knew on what terms he stood with Fanny.

“You are a terrible democrat,” said Mr. Damer, laughing; “but then, on that matter, you know, we could agree to differ.”

“Exactly so,” said Mr. Ingram, who had not collected his thoughts or made up his mind as to what he had better say and do, on the spur of the moment.

“Well, what do you say to it?” said Mr. Damer, encouragingly.  But Ingram paused before he answered.

“For Heaven’s sake, my dear fellow, don’t have the slightest hesitation in refusing, if you don’t like the plan.”

“The fact is, Mr. Damer, I should like it too well.”

“Like it too well?”

“Yes, sir, and I may as well tell you now as later.  I had intended this evening to have asked for your permission to address your daughter.”

“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Damer, looking as though a totally new idea had now been opened to him.

“And under these circumstances, I will now wait and see whether or no you will renew your offer.”

“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Damer, again.  It often does strike an old gentleman as very odd that any man should fall in love with his daughter, whom he has not ceased to look upon as a child.  The case is generally quite different with mothers.  They seem to think that every young man must fall in love with their girls.

“And have you said anything to Fanny about this?” asked Mr. Damer.

“Yes, sir, I have her permission to speak to you.”

“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Damer; and by this time they had arrived at Shepheard’s Hotel.

“Oh, mamma,” said Fanny, as soon as she found herself alone with her mother that evening, “I have something that I must tell you.”

“Oh, Fanny, don’t tell me anything to-night, for I am a great deal too tired to listen.”

“But oh, mamma, pray;—you must listen to this; indeed you must.”  And Fanny knelt down at her mother’s knee, and looked beseechingly up into her face.

“What is it, Fanny?  You know that all my bones are sore, and I am so tired that I am almost dead.”

“Mamma, Mr. Ingram has—”

“Has what, my dear? has he done anything wrong?”

“No, mamma: but he has;—he has proposed to me.”  And Fanny, bursting into tears, hid her face in her mother’s lap.

And thus the story was told on both sides of the house.  On the next day, as a matter of course, all the difficulties and dangers of such a marriage as that which was now projected were insisted on by both father and mother.  It was improper; it would cause a severing of the family not to be thought of; it would be an alliance of a dangerous nature, and not at all calculated to insure happiness; and, in short, it was impossible.  On that day, therefore, they all went to bed very unhappy.  But on the next day, as was also a matter of course, seeing that there were no pecuniary difficulties, the mother and father were talked over, and Mr. Ingram was accepted as a son-in-law.  It need hardly be said that the offer of a place in Mr. Damer’s boat was again made, and that on this occasion it was accepted without hesitation.

There was an American Protestant clergyman resident in Cairo, with whom, among other persons, Miss Dawkins had become acquainted.  Upon this gentleman or upon his wife Miss Dawkins called a few days after the journey to the Pyramid, and finding him in his study, thus performed her duty to her neighbour,—

“You know your countryman Mr. Ingram, I think?” said she.

“Oh, yes; very intimately.”

“If you have any regard for him, Mr. Burton,” such was the gentleman’s name, “I think you should put him on his guard.”

“On his guard against what?” said Mr. Burton with a serious air, for there was something serious in the threat of impending misfortune as conveyed by Miss Dawkins.

“Why,” said she, “those Damers, I fear, are dangerous people.”

“Do you mean that they will borrow money of him?”

“Oh, no; not that, exactly; but they are clearly setting their cap at him.”

“Setting their cap at him?”

“Yes; there is a daughter, you know; a little chit of a thing; and I fear Mr. Ingram may be caught before he knows where he is.  It would be such a pity, you know.  He is going up the river with them, I hear.  That, in his place, is very foolish.  They asked me, but I positively refused.”

Mr. Burton remarked that “In such a matter as that Mr. Ingram would be perfectly able to take care of himself.”

“Well, perhaps so; but seeing what was going on, I thought it my duty to tell you.”  And so Miss Dawkins took her leave.

Mr. Ingram did go up the Nile with the Damers, as did an old friend of the Damers who arrived from England.  And a very pleasant trip they had of it.  And, as far as the present historian knows, the two lovers were shortly afterwards married in England.

Poor Miss Dawkins was left in Cairo for some time on her beam ends.  But she was one of those who are not easily vanquished.  After an interval of ten days she made acquaintance with an Irish family—having utterly failed in moving the hard heart of M. Delabordeau—and with these she proceeded to Constantinople.  They consisted of two brothers and a sister, and were, therefore, very convenient for matrimonial purposes.  But nevertheless, when I last heard of Miss Dawkins, she was still an unprotected female.

***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN UNPROTECTED FEMALE AT THE PYRAMIDS***