h glass"; there was a straw
mat.

"What isn't there?" cried Rosamund, who was almost as delighted as a
child.

A grave and very handsome gentleman from Athens, Achilles Stavros
by name, received her congratulations with a classical smile of
satisfaction.

"He's even got a genuine Greek nose for the occasion!" Rosamund said
delightedly to Dion, when Achilles retired for a moment to give some
instructions about tea to the cook. "Where did you find him?"

"That's my secret."

"I never realised how delicious a camp was before. My wildest dreams are
surpassed."

As they looked at the two small, hard chairs with straw bottoms which
were solemnly set out side by side facing the view, and upon which
Achilles expected them to sink voluptuously for the ritual of tea, they
broke into laughter at Rosamund's exaggerated expressions of
delight. But directly she was able to stop laughing she affirmed with
determination:

"I don't care what anybody says, or thinks; I repeat it"--she glanced
from the straw mat to the cake of anemic pink soap--"my wildest dreams
are surpassed. To think"--she spread out her hands--"only to think of
finding a tooth glass here! It's--it's admirable!"

She turned upon him an almost fanatical eye, daring contradiction; and
they both laughed again, long and loud like two children who, suddenly
aware of a keen physical pleasure, prolong it beyond all reasonable
bounds.

"What are we going to have for tea?" she asked.

"Tea," Dion cried.

"You ridiculous creature!"

From a short distance, Achilles gazed upon the merriment of theses
newly-married English travelers. Nobody had told him they were newly
married; he just knew it, had known it at a glance. As he watched, the
laughter presently died away, and he saw the two walk forward to the
edge of the small plateau, then stand still to gaze at the view.

The prospect from the hill of Drouva above Olympia is very great, and
all Rosamund's inclination to merriment died out of her as she looked
upon it. Even her joy in the camp was forgotten for a moment.

Upon their plateau, sole guests of the bareness, stood two small olive
trees, not distorted by winds. Rosamund leaned against one of them
as she gazed, put her arms round it with a sort of affectionate
carelessness that was half-protective, that seemed to say, "You dear
little tree! How nice of you to be here. But you almost want taking care
of." Then the tree was forgotten, and the Hellenic beau