Cecil Brown and Headingly had dropped behind, for the glib comments of the dragoman, and the empty, light-hearted chatter of the tourists jarred upon their sense of solemnity. They stood in silence watching the grotesque procession, with its sun-hats and green veils, as it passed in the vivid sunshine down the front of the old grey wall. Above them two crested hoopoes were fluttering and calling amid the ruins of the pylon.
“Isn’t it a sacrilege?” said the Oxford man at last.
“Well, now, I’m glad you feel that about it, because it’s how it always strikes me,” Headingly answered with feeling. “I’m not quite clear in my own mind how these things should be approached—if they are to be approached at all—but I am sure this is not the way. On the whole, I prefer the ruins that I have not seen to those which I have.”
The young diplomatist looked up with his peculiarly bright smile, which faded away too soon into his languid, blasé mask.
“I’ve got a map,” said the American, “and
