The shafts of white light, as they pierced between the interstices of the trees were dazzling, so bright, indeed, that the light seemed to hide rather than to reveal. Perry overtook an old man, evidently an artist, with portable easel and canvas, who was walking slowly, very slowly, along the road. He had not passed him more than five minutes, when, before him, at the end of the road, seen through the long line of trees, a faint blue object shimmered against the deep-blue sky. In the hot and wavering air it seemed to float. The boy stopped dead. Little by little, as his eye took a steadier focus, the Great Pyramid of Cheops revealed itself to him, as do scenes in misty pictures. He stood rooted to the spot. A hoarse voice, that yet seemed to have a child’s eagerness in its tones, spoke over his shoulder. “What does it make you think of?” said the voice. “It’s like Euclid turned into music,” responded Perry, half turning to the old artist, who had overtaken him as he stood gazing at his first sight of the Pyramid. “H’m,” said his new friend, looking at the boy. “That’s quite an intelligent reply.” He walked on, and Perry, struck by something very likable in the old artist, fell into step beside him. For at least ten minutes neither spoke, and then the artist repeated, “Euclid turned into music! H’m.” He turned to the lad suddenly. “You paint?” “Not a scrap,” answered the boy, “I can’t draw for sour apples.” “American!” ejaculated the artist, noticing the turn of the expression. “H’m.” A trolley-car whizzed by. “Why aren’t you on that rattle-bang tram?” he demanded. “Didn’t like the idea,” the boy replied simply. “Too much like going to church on rollerskates.” “H’m,” was the artist’s only reply, but the boy could see that he was pleased. “Are you disappointed?” was the artist’s next query. “In Egypt?” “No. In _it_!” He pointed to the pyramid at the end of the road before them, its outlines shining clearer as the sun sank, lengthening the shadows of the trees before them. “It looks smaller than I expected,” Perry replied truthfully, although he suspected any criticism would hurt the artist’s feelings. “That’s because of its shape. You’ll find it seem huge, near by.” The two walked on together in silence. “Are you going to do a picture of the Pyramid?” Perry asked, after a long pause. “Perhaps,” the other answered. “I am waiting.” He did not seem to want to talk, and, as they tramped along the avenue of lebbek trees, Perry fell silent also. His companion was one of those men whose friendship is felt as much in silence as in speech, and the two went forward happily together. Half a mile further on, an Arab stopped the artist, and spoke gravely in Arabic. Hearing that the reply was also in Arabic, Perry strolled on slowly. The artist caught up to him again before long. “You speak Arabic?” queried the boy. “H’m, yes,” the other answered. “I have to speak it; none of them speak the old Egyptian here.” “Do you?”