As we thus talked we came to the forest lodge.  The old pair came running out to greet me, and I told them that the boy was well bestowed.  I could see in the woman’s face that she would soon follow him, and even the old man had a look that I had not seen in him before; and here Amroth left me, and I returned to the city, where all was as peaceable as before.

XIII

But when I saw Cynthia, as I presently did, she too was in a different mood.  She had positively missed me, and told me so with many endearments.  I was not to remain away so long.  I was useful to her.  Charmides had become tiresome and lost in thought, but Lucius was as sweet as ever.  Some new-comers had arrived, all pleasant enough.  She asked me where I had been, and I told her all the story.  “Yes, that is beautiful enough,” she said, “but I hate all this breaking up and going on.  I am sure I do not wish for any change.”  She made a grimace of disgust at the idea of the ugly town I had seen, and then she said that she would go with me some time to look at it, because it would make her happier to return to her peace; and then she went off to tell Lucius.

I soon found Charmides, and I told him my adventures.  “That is a curious story,” he said.  “I like to think of people caring for each other so; that is picturesque!  These simple emotions are interesting.  And one likes to think that people who have none of the finer tastes should have something to fall back upon—­something hot and strong, as we used to say.”

“But,” I said, “tell me this, Charmides, was there never any one in the old days whom you cared for like that?”

“I thought so often enough,” said he, a little peevishly, “but you do not know how much a man like myself is at the mercy of little things!  An ugly hand, a broken tooth, a fallen cheek ... it seems little enough, but one has a sort of standard.  I had a microscopic eye, you know, and a little blemish was a serious thing to me.  I was always in search of something that I could not find; then there were awkward strains in the characters of people—­they were mean or greedy or selfish, and all my pleasure was suddenly dashed.  I am speaking,” he went on, “with a strange candour!  I don’t defend it or excuse it, but there it was.  I did once, as a child, I believe, care for one person—­an old nurse of mine—­in the right way.  Dear, how good she was to me!  I remember once how she came all the way, after she had left us, to see me on my way through town.  She just met me at a railway station, and she had bought a little book which she thought might amuse me, and a bag of oranges—­she remembered that I used to like oranges.  I recollect at the time thinking it was all very touching and devoted; but I was with a friend of mine, and had not time to say much.  I can see her old face, smiling, with tears in her eyes, as we went off.  I gave the book and the oranges away, I remember, to a child at the next station.  It is curious how it all comes back to me now; I never saw her again, and I wish I had behaved better.  I should like to see her again, and to tell her that I really cared!  I wonder if that is possible?  But there is really so much to do here and to enjoy; and there is no one to tell me where to go, so that I am puzzled.  What is one to do?”