by setting aside a liberal portion of his income for anonymous
distribution among deserving persons and objects.

While still in this vacant frame of mind Smith chanced one day, when the
bank was closed, to drift into the British Museum, more to escape the
vile weather that prevailed without than for any other reason. Wandering
hither and thither at hazard, he found himself in the great gallery
devoted to Egyptian stone objects and sculpture. The place bewildered
him somewhat, for he knew nothing of Egyptology; indeed, there remained
upon his mind only a sense of wonderment not unmixed with awe. It must
have been a great people, he thought to himself, that executed these
works, and with the thought came a desire to know more about them. Yet
he was going away when suddenly his eye fell on the sculptured head of a
woman which hung upon the wall.

Smith looked at it once, twice, thrice, and at the third look he fell in
love. Needless to say, he was not aware that such was his condition.
He knew only that a change had come over him, and never, never could
he forget the face which that carven mask portrayed. Perhaps it was not
really beautiful save for its wondrous and mystic smile; perhaps the
lips were too thick and the nostrils too broad. Yet to him that face
was Beauty itself, beauty which drew him as with a cart-rope, and awoke
within him all kinds of wonderful imaginings, some of them so strange
and tender that almost they partook of the nature of memories. He stared
at the image, and the image smiled back sweetly at him, as doubtless it,
or rather its original--for this was but a plaster cast--had smiled at
nothingness in some tomb or hiding-hole for over thirty centuries, and
as the woman whose likeness it was had once smiled upon the world.

A short, stout gentleman bustled up and, in tones of authority,