“But the old Greek heroes fought and laboured to till the land, and rid it of giants and monsters,” said Frank.  “And as for the Marquesas, Mr. Melville found out, did he not—­as you did once—­that they were only petting and fattening him for the purpose of eating him?  There is a dark side to that pretty picture, Mr. Mellot.”

“Tant pis pour eux!  But that is an unnecessary appendage to the idea, purely.  It must be possible to realise such a simple, rich, healthy life, without wickedness, if not without human sorrow.  It is no dream, and no one shall rob me of it.  I have seen fragments of it scattered up and down the world; and I believe they will all meet in Paradise—­where and when I care not; but they will meet.  I was very happy in the South Sea Islands, after that, when nobody meant to eat me; and I am very happy here, and do not intend to be eaten, unless it will be any pleasure to Miss St. Just.  No; let man enjoy himself when he can, and take his fill of those flaming red geraniums, and glossy rhododendrons, and feathered crown-ferns, and the gold green lace of those acacias tossing and whispering overhead, and the purple mountains sleeping there aloft, and the murmur of the brook over the stones; and drink in scents with every breath,—­what was his nose made for, save to smell?  I used to torment myself once by asking them all what they meant.  Now, I am content to have done with symbolisms, and say, ’What you all mean, I care not, all I know is, that I can draw pleasure from the mere sight of you, as, perhaps, you do from the mere sight of me; so let us sit together, Nature and I, and stare into each other’s eyes like two young lovers, careless of the morrow and its griefs.’  I will not even take the trouble to paint her.  Why make ugly copies of perfect pictures?  Let those who wish to see her take a railway ticket, and save us academicians colours and canvas. Quant a moi, the public must go to the mountains, as Mahomet had to do; for the mountains shall not come to the public.”

“One of your wilful paradoxes, Mr. Mellot; why, you are photographing them all day long.”

“Not quite all day long, madam.  And after all, il faut vivre: I want a few luxuries; I have no capacity for keeping a shop; photographing pays better than painting, considering the time it takes; and it is only Nature reproducing herself, not caricaturing her.  But if any one will ensure me a poor two thousand a year, I will promise to photograph no more, but vanish to Sicily or Calabria, and sit with Sabina in an orchard all my days, twining rose garlands for her pretty head, like Theocritus and his friends, while the ’pears drop on our shoulders, and the apples by our side.’”

“What do you think of all this?” asked Valencia of Frank.

“That I am too like the Emersonian oyster here, very happy, and very useless; and, therefore, very anxious to be gone.”

“Surely you have earned the right to be idle awhile?”