CHAPTER XII.
In all her life Mathilde had never felt so conspicuous as she did going up the long flight of stairs at the Fifth Avenue entrance of the museum.
It seemed to her that people, those walking past in the sunshine on the sidewalk, and the strangers in town seeing the sights from the top of the green busses, were saying to one another as they looked at her, "There goes a New York girl to meet her lover in one of the more ancient of the Egyptian rooms." She started as she heard the voice of the guard, though he was saying nothing but "Check your umbrella" to a man behind her.

She sped across the marble floor of the great tapestry hall as a little, furry wild animal darts across an open space in the woods.

She was thinking that she could not bear it if Pete were not there.

How could she wait many minutes under the eyes of the guards, who must know better than any one else that no flesh-and-blood girl took any real interest in Egyptian antiquities?
The round, unambitious dial at the entrance, like an enlarged kitchen-clock, had pointed to the exact hour set for the meeting.

She ought not to expect that Pete, getting away from the office in business hours, could be as punctual as an eager, idle creature like herself.
She had made up her mind so clearly that when she entered the night-blue room there would be nothing but tombs and mummies that when she saw Pete standing with his overcoat over his arm, in the blue-serge clothes she particularly liked, she felt as much surprised as if their meeting were accidental.
She tried to draw a long breath.
"I shall never get used to it," she said.