“I should hate to live in Gartley Fort,” said she abruptly. “One might as well be in jail.” “If you marry Random you will have to live there, or on a baggage wagon. He is R.G.A. captain, remember, and has to go where glory calls him, like a good soldier.” “Glory can call until glory is hoarse for me,” retorted the girl candidly. “I prefer an artist's studio to a camp.” “Why?” asked Hope, laughing at her vehemence. “The reason is obvious. I love the artist.” “And if you loved the soldier?” “I should mount the baggage wagon and make him Bovril when he was wounded. But for you, dear, I shall cook and sew and bake and--” “Stop! stop! I want a wife, not a housekeeper.” “Every sensible man wants the two in one.” “But you should be a queen, darling.” “Not with my own consent, Archie: the work is much too hard. Existence on six pounds a week with you will be more amusing. We can take a cottage, you know, and live, the simple life in Gartley village, until you become the P.R.A., and I can be Lady Hope, to walk in silk attire.” “You shall be Queen of the Earth, darling, and walk alone.” “How dull! I would much rather walk with you. And that reminds me that dinner is waiting. Let us take the short cut home through the village. On the way you can tell me exactly how you bought me from my step-father for one thousand pounds.” Archie Hope frowned at the incurable obstinacy of the sex. “I didn't buy you, dearest: how many times do you wish me to deny a sale which never took place? I merely obtained your step-father's consent to our marriage in the near future.” “As if he had anything to do with my marriage, being only my step-father, and having, in my eyes, no authority. In what way did you get his consent--his unnecessary consent,” she repeated with emphasis. Of course it was waste of breath to argue with a woman who had made up her mind. The two began to walk towards the village along the causeway, and Hope cleared his throat to explain--patiently as to a child. “You know that your step-father--Professor Braddock--is crazy on the subject of mummies?” Lucy nodded in her pretty wilful way. “He is an Egyptologist.” “Quite so, but less famous and rich than he should be, considering his knowledge of dry-as-dust antiquities. Well, then, to make a long story short, he told me that he greatly desired to examine into the difference between the Egyptians and the Peruvians, with regard to the embalming of the dead.” “I always thought that he was too fond of Egypt to bother about any other country,” said Lucy sapiently. “My dear, it isn't the country he cares about, but the civilization of the past. The Incas embalmed their dead, as did the Egyptians, and in some way the Professor heard of a Royal Mummy, swathed in green bandages--so he described it to me.” “It should be called an Irish mummy,” said Lucy flippantly. “Well?”