o lived in Rome,' he replied, dabbing away.

'O dear!' I cried disconsolately. 'What a lot of people seem to live at
Rome, and I've never even been there! But I think I'd like _my_ city
best.'

'And so would I,' he replied with unction. 'But Marcus Aurelius
wouldn't, you know.'

'Then we won't invite him,' I said; 'will we?'

'_I_ won't if you won't,' said he. And that point being settled, we were
silent for a while.

'Do you know,' he said presently, 'I've met one or two fellows from time
to time, who have been to a city like yours--perhaps it was the same
one. They won't talk much about it--only broken hints, now and then; but
they've been there sure enough. They don't seem to care about anything
in particular--and everything's the same to them, rough or smooth; and
sooner or later they slip off and disappear; and you never see them
again. Gone back, I suppose.'

'Of course,' said I. 'Don't see what they ever came away for; _I_
wouldn't. To be told you've broken things when you haven't, and stopped
having tea with the servants in the kitchen, and not allowed to have a
dog to sleep with you. But _I've_ known people, too, who've gone there.'

The artist stared, but without incivility.

'Well, there's Lancelot,' I went on. 'The book says he died, but it
never seemed to read right, somehow. He just went away, like Arthur. And
Crusoe, when he got tired of wearing clothes and being respectable. And
all the nice men in the stories who don't marry the Princess, 'cos only
one man ever gets married in a book, you know. They'll be there!'

'And the men who never come off,' he said, 'who try like the rest, but
get knocked out, or somehow miss--or break down or get bowled over in
the melee--and get no Princess, nor even a second-class kingdom--some
of them'll be there, I hope?'

'Yes, if you like,' I replied, not quite understanding him; 'if they're
friends of yours, we'll ask 'em, of course.'

'What a time we shall have!' said the artist reflectively; 'and how
shocked old Marcus Aurelius will be!'

The shadows had lengthened uncannily, a tide of golden haze was flooding
the grey-green surface of the downs, and the artist began to put his
traps together, preparatory to a move. I felt very low: we would have to
part, it seemed, just as we were getting on so well together. Then he
stood up, and he was very straight and tall, and the sunset was in his
hair and beard as he stood there, high over me. He took my hand like