"I wish it was Egypt," said Peter languidly. "Any more peppermints left, El? No—well, Ted never could restrain himself when it came to food. I wish it was Egypt," he repeated, making Elinor's left foot a pillow for his head.

"Well, it's hot enough," from Oliver, dozingly. "Ah—oo—it's hot!"

"I know, but just think," Peter chuckled. "Clothes," he explained cryptically, "Mrs. Willamette in a Cleopatra nightie—what sport! And besides, I should make a magnificent Egyptian. Magnificent." He yawned immensely. "In the first place, of course, I should paint myself a brilliant orange—"

The Egyptians. An odd wonder rose in Ted—a wonder as to whether one of those stripped and hook-nosed slaves of the bondage before Moses had ever happened to stand up for a moment to wipe the sweat out of his eyes before he bent. . . Read More