e city gates
where strange and brilliant flowers grew, filling the hot air with their
odor, and scenting the breeze that blew along the streets. The dull
modern life was far away, and people who saw him at this period wondered
what was amiss; the abstraction of his glance was obvious, even to eyes
not over-sharp. But men and women had lost all their power of annoyance
and vexation; they could no longer even interrupt his thought for a
moment. He could listen to Mr. Dixon with apparent attention, while he
was in reality enraptured by the entreating music of the double flute,
played by a girl in the garden of Avallaunius, for that was the name he
had taken. Mr. Dixon was innocently discoursing archeology, giving a
brief _resume_ of the view expressed by Mr. Wyndham at the last meeting
of the antiquarian society.

"There can be no doubt that the temple of Diana stood there in pagan
times," he concluded, and Lucian assented to the opinion, and asked a few
questions which seemed pertinent enough. But all the time the flute notes
were sounding in his ears, and the ilex threw a purple shadow on the
white pavement before his villa. A boy came forward from the garden; he
had been walking amongst the vines and plucking the ripe grapes, and the
juice had trickled down over his breast. Standing beside the girl,
unashamed in the sunlight, he began to sing one of Sappho's love songs.
His voice was as full and rich as a woman's, but purged of all emotion;
he was an instrument of music in the flesh. Lucian looked at him
steadily; the white perfect body shone against the roses and the blue of
the sky, clear and gleaming as marble in the glare of the sun. The
words he sang burned and flamed with passion, and he was as unconscious
of their meaning as the twin pipes of the flute. And the girl was
smiling. The vicar shook hands and went on, well pleased with his remarks
on the temple of Diana, and also with Lucian's polite interest.

"He is by no means wanting in intelligence," he said to his family. "A
little curious in manner, perhaps, but not stupid."

"Oh, papa," said Henrietta, "don't you think he is rather silly? He can't
talk about anything--anything interesting, I mean. And he pretends to
know a lot about books, but I heard him say the other day he had never
read _The Prince of the House of David_ or _Ben-Hur_. Fancy!"

The vicar had not interrupted Lucian. The sun still beat upon the roses,
and a little breeze bore the scent of