ing the
season of the full moon in September all lectures were suspended and
most of the Roman students joined the crowd of travellers to Elis
to see the Olympic games. Paulus had had a touch of malaria and his
physician had urged him not to expose himself to the dangers of
outdoor camping in a low country. He consented lightly, thinking to
himself that since he was to live in Greece he could afford to
postpone for a few years the arduous pleasures of the great festival.
Herodes Atticus had gone this year, and upon his return brought with
him for a visit a group of very distinguished men, including Lucian
and Apuleius and the Alexandrian astronomer, Ptolemy. Paulus was
astonished and proud to receive, with Gellius, an invitation to a
dinner in their honour given at Cephisia.

The weather was still extremely hot and the dinner hour was set late.
Even when Paulus and Gellius left the city the air was heavy and
exhausting and never had the villa seemed to them more beautiful.
The great groves of cypresses and pines, of poplars and plane trees,
were dark with the shadow of the moonless night. In the broad pools
the stars were reflected. The birds were hushed, but the sound of
cool, running water rang sweet in urban ears. Within the dining-room
an unhampered taste had done all that was possible to obliterate the
memory of the scorching day. A certain restraint in all the
appointments perfected the sense of well-being. As Paulus yielded
to it and looked at his fellow guests, he drew a long breath of
contentment. How exquisite, he thought, was Greek life, how vivid
the inspiration of this hour!

Conversation naturally turned at first to episodes of the Games and
the successes of the victors; then by easy stages drifted to the
discussion of the nature of success of any kind.

Alpheus of Mytilene, hailing, by how long an interval, from the city
and the craft of the Lesbian Muse, turned to the host. "Atticus,"
he said, "here is an easy question for you. Tell us how to succeed."
All the guests paused expectantly, knowing that a chance question
would sometimes lead Atticus into one of the vivid displays of
extemporaneous oratory for which he was famous. Nor were they
disappointed now. He looked at the company before him, men, for the
most part, younger than himself. A strange glow, as if from
smouldering fires freshly stirred, brightened in his dark eyes, and
he began to speak, impetuously. His voice, low in its first haste,
r