Dion could not remember at all what he had felt, or how he had regarded his mother when he was nine months old.  Presently he recalled Hermes and the child in that remote and hushed room hidden away in the green wilds of Elis; he even saw them before him—­saw the beautiful face of the Hermes, saw the child’s stretched-out arm.

Elis!  He had been wonderfully happy there, far away in the smiling wilderness.  Would he ever be there again?  And, if fate did indeed lead his steps thither, would he again be wonderfully happy?  Of one thing he was certain; that he would never see Elis, would never see Hermes and the child again, unless Rosamund was with him.  She had made the green wilderness to blossom as the rose.  She only could make his life to blossom.  He depended upon her terribly—­terribly.  Always that love of his was growing.  People, especially women, often said that the love of a man was quickly satisfied, more quickly than a woman’s, that the masculine satisfaction was soon followed by satiety.  Love such as that was only an appetite, a species of lust.  Such a woman as Rosamund could not awaken mere lust.  For her a man might have desire, but only the desire that every great love of a man for a woman encloses.  And how utterly different that was from physical lust.

He thought of the maidens upholding the porch of the Erechtheion.  His Rosamund descended from them, was as pure, as serene in her goodness, as beautiful as they were.

In thinking of the beloved maidens he did not think of them as marble.

Before he went to sleep Dion had realized that, since Rosamund was awake, the reason for his coming to the spare room did not exist.  Nevertheless he did not go to their bedroom that night.  Robin’s little dry cough still sounded in his ears.  To-night was Robin’s kingdom.

In a day or two Robin was better, in a week he was perfectly well.  If he had not chanced to catch cold, would Rosamund have worn that new evening-gown at the Carlton dinner?

On that question Dion had a discussion with Daventry which was disagreeable to him.  One day Daventry, who had evidently been, in silence, debating whether to speak or not, said to him: 

“Oh, Dion, d’you mind if I use a friend’s privilege and say something I very much want to say, but which you mayn’t be so keen to hear?”

“No, of course not.  We can say anything to each other.”

“Can we?  I’m not sure of that—­now.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Oh, well—­anyhow, this time I’ll venture.  Why did Rosamund throw us over the other night at almost the last moment?”

“Because Robin was ill.”

“He’s quite well now.”

“Why not.  It’s ten days ago.”

“He can’t have been so very ill.”

“He was ill enough to make Rosamund very anxious.  She was up with him the whole night before your dinner; and not only that, she was up again on the night of the dinner, though she was very tired.”