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spending the remainder of the winter with the lady was not pleasing to me. Yet, having beheld his anguish that very evening, I could not stand in his way if he decided to go.
    Emerson stood staring at Lady Baskerville, his own feelings writ plainly across his face. His expression was that of a prisoner who had suddenly been offered a pardon after years of confinement. Then his shoulders sagged.
    "It is impossible," he said.
    "But why?" Lady Baskerville asked. "My dear husband's will specifically provides for the completion of any project that might have been in progress at the time of his demise. The staff—with the exception of Alan—is in Luxor, ready to continue. I confess that the workers have shown a singular reluctance to return to the tomb; they are poor, superstitious things, as you know—"
    "That would present no problem," Emerson said, with a sweeping gesture. "No, Lady Baskerville; the difficulty is not in Egypt. It is here. We have a young child. We could not risk taking him to Luxor."
    There was a pause. Lady Baskerville's arched brows rose still higher; she turned to me with a look that expressed the question she was too well bred to voice aloud. For really, the objection was, on the face of it, utterly trivial. Most men, given an opportunity such as the one she had offered, would coolly have disposed of half a dozen children, and the same number of wives, in order to accept. It was because this idea had, obviously, not even passed through Emerson's mind that I was nerved to make the noblest gesture of my life.
    "Do not consider that, Emerson," I said. I had to pause, to clear my throat; but I went on with a firmness that, if I may say so, did me infinite credit. "Ramses and I will do very well here. We will write every day—"
    "Write!" Emerson spun around to face me, his blue eyes blazing, his brow deeply furrowed. An unwitting observer might have thought he was enraged. "What are you talking about? You know I won't go without you."
    "But—" I began, my heart overflowing.
    "Don't talk nonsense, Peabody. It is out of the question."
    If I had not had other sources of deep satisfaction at that moment, the look on Lady Baskerville's face would have been sufficient cause for rejoicing. Emerson's response had taken her completely by surprise; and the astonishment with which she regarded me, as she tried to find some trace of the charms that made a man unwilling to be parted from me, was indeed delightful to behold.
    Recovering, she said hesitantly, "If there is any question of a proper establishment for the child—"
    "No, no," said Emerson. "That is not the question. I am sorry, Lady Baskerville. What about Petrie?"
    "That dreadful man?" Lady Baskerville shuddered. "Henry could not abide him—so rude, so opinionated, so vulgar."
    "Naville, then."
    "Henry had such a poor opinion of his abilities. Besides, I believe he is under obligation to the Egypt Exploration Fund."
    Emerson proposed a few more names. Each was unacceptable. Yet the lady continued to sit, and I wondered what new approach she was contemplating. I wished she would get on with it, or take her leave; I was very hungry, having had no appetite for tea.
    Once again my aggravating but useful child rescued me from an unwelcome guest. Our good-night visits to Ramses were an invariable custom. Emerson read to him, and I had my part as well. We were late in coming, and patience is not a conspicuous virtue of Ramses. Having waited, as he thought, long enough, he came in search of us. How he eluded his nurse and the other servants on that particular occasion I do not know, but he had raised evasion to a fine art. The drawing-room doors burst open with such emphasis that one looked for a Herculean form in the doorway. Yet the sight of Ramses in his little white nightgown, his hair curling damply around his beaming face, was not anticlimactic; he looked positively angelic, requiring only wings to resemble one of Raphael's swarthier cherubs.
    He was carrying a