Now stooping over the well, that he might have sight of his own face, was a most wretched man.  He was pale and very meagre; he had black rings under his eyes, and his hair was long, limp, and greasy, falling over his shoulders.  He was clad somewhat after the manner of the old Greeks, but his raiment was wofully ill-made and ill-girt upon him, nor did he ever seem at his ease.  As soon as I beheld his sallow face I knew him for one I had seen and mocked at in the world of the living.  He was a certain Figgins, and he had been honestly apprenticed to a photographer; but, being a weak and vain young fellow, he had picked up modern notions about art, the nude, plasticity, and the like, in the photographer’s workroom, whereby he became a weariness to the photographer and to them that sat unto him.  Being dismissed from his honest employment, this chitterling must needs become a model to some painters that were near as ignorant as himself.  They talked to him about the Greeks, about the antique, about Paganism, about the Renaissance, till they made him as much the child of folly as themselves.  And they painted him as Antinous, as Eros, as Sleep, and I know not what, but whatever name they called him he was always the same lank-haired, dowdy, effeminate, pasty-faced photographer’s young man.  Then he must needs take to writing poems all about Greece, and the free ways of the old Greeks, and Lais, and Phryne, and therein he made “Aeolus” rhyme to “control us.”  For of Greek this fellow knew not a word, and any Greek that met him had called him a [Greek text], and bidden him begone to the crows for a cursed fellow, and one that made false quantities in every Greek name he uttered.  But his little poems were much liked by young men of his own sort, and by some of the young women.  Now death had come to Figgins, and here he was in the Fortunate Islands, the very paradise of those Greeks about whom he had always been prating while he was alive.  And yet he was not happy.  A little lyre lay beside him in the grass, and now and again he twanged on it dolorously, and he tried to weave himself garlands from the flowers that grew around him; but he knew not the art, and ever and anon he felt for his button-hole, wherein to stick a lily or the like.  But he had no button-hole.  Then he would look at himself in the well, and yawn and wish himself back in his friends’ studios in London.  I almost pitied the wretch, and, going up to him, I asked him how he did.  He said he had never been more wretched.  “Why,” I asked, “was your mouth not always full of the ‘Greek spirit,’ and did you not mock the Christians and their religion?  And, as to their heaven, did you not say that it was a tedious place, full of pious old ladies and Philistines?  And are you not got to the paradise of the Greeks?  What, then, ails you with your lot?” “Sir,” said he, “to be plain with you, I do not understand a word these fellows about me say, and I feel as I did the first time I went to Paris, before I knew