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the crumbling brown masses■ of tombs—he glanced around at their pic●nicking companions and marvelle■d at her grace in eating a hard-boiled e

gg. I■t was a noisy, excited party and it wa■s “Lucilla this,” and “Lucilla● that,” all the time, for there■ was hot argument. “I don?/p>

痶 take ■any stock in bulls, so I’m not g●oing to see the Serapeum,” declared Miss Watn●ey-Holcombe. “But Lucilla says you’ve got to,■?/p>

?exclaimed Martin. Then he● realised that unconsciously he had use■d her Christian name. He flushed and● under cover of the talk turned to h

er w■ith an apology. He met laughing eyes. “●Scrubby little artists in Paris cal■l me Lucilla without the quiv■er of an eyelash.” “What may be permissibl■e to a scrubby little artist in■ Paris,” said Martin, “mayn’t be permi■tted to one who ought to know be

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tter.” She p●assed him a plate containing th■e last banana. He declined with a courteous g■esture. “Martin,” she said,● deliberately dumping the fruit in● front of him, “if you don’t ●look out, you will die of conscientiousnes■s.” During part of the blazin

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s of Lucilla, did he othe●rwise emerge from his obscurity ●than on these daily visits to the■ famous terrace. There surrounde■d by chatter i


n all tongues and by r■epresentatives of all cities from Seattle round■

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