Such was my first meeting with the man whom I afterward came to know as
Pharos the Egyptian.

CHAPTER II.

As you are aware, my picture that year was hung in an excellent
position, was favourably received by those for whose criticism I had any
sort of respect, attracted its fair share of attention from the general
public, and, as a result, brought me as near contentment as a man can
well hope or expect to be in this world. Before it had been twenty-four
hours "on the line," I had received several tempting offers for it; but
as I had set my heart on obtaining a certain sum, and was determined not
to accept less, you may suppose I did not give them much attention. If I
received what I wanted, I promised myself a treat I had been looking
forward to all my life. In that case I would take a long holiday, and,
instead of spending the next winter in England, would start for Egypt in
the autumn, taking in Italy _en route_, make my way up the Nile, and be
home again, all being well, in the spring, or, at latest, during the
early days of summer.

Ever since I first became an exhibitor at Burlington House, I have made
it a rule to studiously avoid visiting the gallery after varnishing day.
My reasons would interest no one, but they were sufficiently strong to
induce me to adhere to them. This year, however, I was led into doing so
in a quite unintentional fashion, and as that exception vitally concerns
this narrative, I must narrate in detail the circumstances that led up
to it.

On a certain Friday early in June, I was sitting in my studio, after
lunch, wondering what I should do with myself during the afternoon, when
a knock sounded at the door, and a moment later, after I had invited
whoever stood outside to enter, my old friend, George Merridew, his
wife, son, and three daughters, trooped into the room. They were plainly
up from the country, and, as usual, were doing the sights at express
speed. George Merridew, as you know, stands six feet in his stockings,
and is broad in proportion. His face is red, his eyes blue, and he
carries with him wherever he goes the air of a prosperous country
squire, which he certainly is. Like many other big men, he is
unconscious of his strength, and when he shakes hands with you, you have
reason to remember the fact for five minutes afterward. His wife is
small, and, as some folks declare, looks younger than her eldest
daughter, who is a tennis champion, a golfer, and boasts a supre