This advice seemed good. Soon the table was littered over with things which the children thought likely to interest the Ancient Egyptians. Anthea brought dolls, puzzle blocks, a wooden tea-service, a green leather case with _Nécessaire_ written on it in gold letters. Aunt Emma had once given it to Anthea, and it had then contained scissors, penknife, bodkin, stiletto, thimble, corkscrew, and glove-buttoner. The scissors, knife, and thimble, and penknife were, of course, lost, but the other things were there and as good as new. Cyril contributed lead soldiers, a cannon, a catapult, a tin-opener, a tie-clip, and a tennis ball, and a padlock—no key. Robert collected a candle (“I don’t suppose they ever saw a self-fitting paraffin one,” he said), a penny Japanese pin-tray, a rubber stamp with his father’s name and address on it, and a piece of putty. Jane added a key-ring, the brass handle of a poker, a pot that had held cold-cream, a smoked pearl button off her winter coat, and a key—no lock. “We can’t take all this rubbish,” said Robert, with some scorn. “We must just each choose one thing.” The afternoon passed very agreeably in the attempt to choose from the table the four most suitable objects. But the four children could not agree what was suitable, and at last Cyril said— “Look here, let’s each be blindfolded and reach out, and the first thing you touch you stick to.” This was done. Cyril touched the padlock. Anthea got the _Nécessaire_. Robert clutched the candle. Jane picked up the tie-clip. “It’s not much,” she said. “I don’t believe Ancient Egyptians wore ties.” “Never mind,” said Anthea. “I believe it’s luckier not to really choose. In the stories it’s always the thing the wood-cutter’s son picks up in the forest, and almost throws away because he thinks it’s no good, that turns out to be the magic thing in the end; or else someone’s lost it, and he is rewarded with the hand of the King’s daughter in marriage.” “I don’t want any hands in marriage, thank you.” said Cyril firmly. “Nor yet me,” said Robert. “It’s always the end of the adventures when it comes to the marriage hands.” “_Are_ we ready?” said Anthea. “It _is_ Egypt we’re going to, isn’t it?—nice Egypt?” said Jane. “I won’t go anywhere I don’t know about—like that dreadful big-wavy burning-mountain city,” she insisted. Then the Psammead was coaxed into its bag. “I say,” said Cyril suddenly, “I’m rather sick of kings. And people notice you so in palaces. Besides the Amulet’s sure to be in a Temple. Let’s just go among the common people, and try to work ourselves up by degrees. We might get taken on as Temple assistants.” “Like beadles,” said Anthea, “or vergers. They must have splendid chances of stealing the Temple treasures.” “Righto!” was the general rejoinder. The charm was held up. It grew big once again, and once again the warm golden Eastern light glowed softly beyond it.