s also be
remembered, that nothing is to be gained by entering the pyramid
except dirt, noise, stench, vermin, abuse, and want of air. Nothing
is to be seen there--nothing to be heard. A man may sprain his
ankle, and certainly will knock his head. He will encounter no other
delights but these.

But he certainly will come out a wiser man than he went in. He will
then be wise enough to know how wretched a place is the interior of
a pyramid--an amount of wisdom with which no teaching of mine will
imbue him.

Bertram and Wilkinson were sitting beneath the pyramid, with their
faces toward the desert, enjoying the cool night air, when they
first began to speak of Adela Gauntlet. Hitherto Arthur had hardly
mentioned her name. They had spoken much of his mother, much of the
house at Hurst Staple, and much also of Lady Harcourt, of whose
separation from her husband they were of course aware; but Arthur had
been shy of mentioning Adela's name.

They had been speaking of Mrs. Wilkinson, and the disagreeable
position in which the vicar found himself in his own house; when,
after sitting silent for a moment, he said, "After all, George,
I sometimes think that it would have been better for me to have
married."

"Of course it would--or rather, I should say, will be better. It is
what you will do when you return."

"I don't know about my health now."

"Your health will be right enough after this winter. I don't see much
the matter with it."

"I am better, certainly;" and then there was another pause.

"Arthur," continued Bertram, "I only wish that I had open before me
the same chance in life that you have--the same chance of happiness."

"Do not despair, George. A short time cures all our wounds."

"Yes; a short time does cure them all--and then comes chaos."

"I meant a short time in this world."

"Well, all things are possible; but I do not understand how mine are
to be cured. They have come too clearly from my own folly."

"From such folly," said Arthur, "as always impedes the working of
human prudence."

"Do you remember, Arthur, my coming to you the morning after the
degrees came down--when you were so low in spirits because you had
broken down--when I was so full of triumph?"

"I remember the morning well; but I do not remember any triumph on
your part."

"Ah! I was triumphant--triumphant in my innermost heart. I thought
then that all the world must give way to me, because I had taken a
double-first. And no