“Miss Martha--” he began. Then he laughed aloud, a laugh of sheer happiness. “It--it just occurred to me,” he exclaimed. “How extraordinary I didn't think of it before. I sha'n't have to call you Miss Martha now, shall I? It is very wonderful, isn't it? Dear me, yes! Very wonderful!” Martha laughed, too. “I'm afraid other people are goin' to think it is very ridiculous,” she said. “And perhaps it is. Two middle-aged, settled folks like us startin' up all at once and gettin' married. I know I should laugh if it was anybody else.” But Galusha stoutly maintained there was nothing ridiculous about it. It was wonderful, that was all. “Besides,” he declared, “we are not old; we are just beginning to be young, you and I. Personally, I feel as if I could jump over a bush and annihilate a--ah--June bug, as Luce did that night when we went out to see the moon.” Luce himself was at the door waiting to be let in. He regarded the pair with the air of condescending boredom which the feline race assumes when confronted with the idiosyncrasies of poor humanity. Possibly he was reflecting that, at least, he knew enough to go in when it rained. Martha opened the door, but Galusha paused for a moment on the threshold. “Do you know,” he said, “that, except--ah--occasionally, in wet weather, it scarcely ever rains in Egypt?” CHAPTER XXIV (A letter from Mrs. Galusha Bangs to Miss Lulie Hallett.) Shepheard's Hotel, Cairo, Egypt, February tenth. MY DEAR LULIE: Well, as you can see by this hotel letter paper, here we are, actually here. Of course we are only a little way toward where we are going, but this is Egypt, and I am beginning to believe it. Of course, I can't yet quite believe it is really truly me that is doing these wonderful things and seeing these wonderful places. About every other morning still I wake up and think what a splendid dream I have had and wonder if it isn't time for me to call Primmie and see about getting breakfast. And then it comes to me that it isn't a dream at all and that I don't have to get up unless I want to, that I don't have to do anything unless I want to, and that everything a sensible person could possibly want to do I CAN do, and have a free conscience besides, which is considerable. I don't mean that I lay a-bed much later than I used to. I never could abide not getting up at a regular time, and so half past seven generally finds me ready to go down to breakfast. But, oh, it is a tremendous satisfaction to think that I could sleep later if I ever should want to. Although, of course, I can't conceive of my ever wanting to.