He could not get the people out of his mind.  Sometimes at Lynn’s they affected him in the same way, and he looked at them file past him with horror; they were so ugly and there was such meanness in their faces, it was terrifying; their features were distorted with paltry desires, and you felt they were strange to any ideas of beauty.  They had furtive eyes and weak chins.  There was no wickedness in them, but only pettiness and vulgarity.  Their humour was a low facetiousness.  Sometimes he found himself looking at them to see what animal they resembled (he tried not to, for it quickly became an obsession,) and he saw in them all the sheep or the horse or the fox or the goat.  Human beings filled him with disgust.

But presently the influence of the place descended upon him.  He felt quieter.  He began to look absently at the tombstones with which the room was lined.  They were the work of Athenian stone masons of the fourth and fifth centuries before Christ, and they were very simple, work of no great talent but with the exquisite spirit of Athens upon them; time had mellowed the marble to the colour of honey, so that unconsciously one thought of the bees of Hymettus, and softened their outlines.  Some represented a nude figure, seated on a bench, some the departure of the dead from those who loved him, and some the dead clasping hands with one who remained behind.  On all was the tragic word farewell; that and nothing more.  Their simplicity was infinitely touching.  Friend parted from friend, the son from his mother, and the restraint made the survivor’s grief more poignant.  It was so long, long ago, and century upon century had passed over that unhappiness; for two thousand years those who wept had been dust as those they wept for.  Yet the woe was alive still, and it filled Philip’s heart so that he felt compassion spring up in it, and he said: 

“Poor things, poor things.”

And it came to him that the gaping sight-seers and the fat strangers with their guide-books, and all those mean, common people who thronged the shop, with their trivial desires and vulgar cares, were mortal and must die.  They too loved and must part from those they loved, the son from his mother, the wife from her husband; and perhaps it was more tragic because their lives were ugly and sordid, and they knew nothing that gave beauty to the world.  There was one stone which was very beautiful, a bas relief of two young men holding each other’s hand; and the reticence of line, the simplicity, made one like to think that the sculptor here had been touched with a genuine emotion.  It was an exquisite memorial to that than which the world offers but one thing more precious, to a friendship; and as Philip looked at it, he felt the tears come to his eyes.  He thought of Hayward and his eager admiration for him when first they met, and how disillusion had come and then indifference, till nothing held them together but habit and old memories.  It was one of the