originality; but the lower part of this contradictory countenance
might have belonged to a prize-fighter. Nevertheless, Braddock's
plumpness did away to a considerable extent with his aggressive
look. It was certainly latent, but only came to the surface when
he fought with a brother savant over some tomb-dweller from
Thebes. In the soft lamplight he looked like a fighting cherub,
and it was a pity--in the interests of art--that the hairless
pink and white face did not surmount a pair of wings rather than
a rusty and ill-fitting dress suit.

"He's nane sa dafty as he looks," thought Mrs. Jasher, who was
Scotch, although she claimed to be cosmopolitan. "With his
mummies he is all right, but outside those he might be difficult
to manage. And these things," she glanced round the shadowy
room, crowded with the dead and their earthly belongings. "I
don't think I would care to marry the British Museum. Too much
like hard work, and I am not so young as I was."

The near mirror--a polished silver one, which had belonged, ages
ago, to some coquette of Memphis--denied this uncomplimentary
thought, for Mrs. Jasher did not look a day over thirty, although
her birth certificate set her down as forty-five. In the
lamplight she might have passed for even younger, so carefully
had she preserved what remained to her of youth. She assuredly
was somewhat stout, and never had been so tall as she desired to
be. But the lines of her plump figure were still discernible in
the cunningly cut gown, and she carried her little self with
such mighty dignity that people overlooked the mortifying height
of a trifle over five feet. Her features were small and neat,
but her large blue eyes were so noticeable and melting that those