rm through Dion's, she began to talk of the future.

"We've got to go away from all this, but let us carry it with us; you
know, as one can carry things that one has really gathered up, really
got hold of. It will mean a lot to us afterwards in England, in our
regular humdrum life. Not that life's ever humdrum. We must take Drouva
to England, and Marathon, and the view from the Acropolis, and the
columns of the Parthenon above all those, and the tombs."

"But they're sad."

"We must take them. I'm quite sure the way to make life splendid, noble,
what it is meant to be to each of us, is to press close against
one's heart all that is sent to one, the sorrows as well as the joys.
Everything one tries to keep at arm's length hurts one."

"Sins?"

"Sins, Dion? I said what is sent to us."

"Don't you think----?"

"Sins are never sent to us, we always have to go and fetch them. It's
like that poor old chemist going round the corner in the fog with a jug
for what is ruining his life."

"What poor old chemist?" he asked.

"A great friend of mine in London--Mr. Thrush. You shall know him some
day. Oh--but London! Now, Dion, can we, you and I, live perpetually in
London after all this?"

"Well, dearest, I must stick close to business."

"I know that. And we've got the little house. But later on?"

"And your singing, your traveling all over the place with a maid!"

"I wonder if I shall. To-night I don't feel as if I shall."

She stood still abruptly, and was silent for a minute.

"Don't you think," she said, in a different and less exuberant voice,
and with a changed and less physical manner--"don't you think sometimes,
in exceptional hours, one can feel what is to come, what is laid up for
one? I do. This is an exceptional hour. We are on the heights and it's
very wonderful. Well, perhaps to-night we can feel what is coming. Let's
try."

"How?"

"Let's just be quiet, and give ourselves up to the hill of Drouva, and
Greece, and the night, and--and what surrounds and permeates us and all
this."

With a big and noble gesture she indicated the sleeping world far below
them, breathless under the moon; the imperceptible valleys merged in the
great plain through which the river, silver once more, moved unsleeping
between its low-lying banks to the sea; the ranges of mountains which
held themselves apart in the night, a great company, reserved and almost
austere, yet trodden with confidence by the feet of those fair