To one hitherto accustomed to England, the emptiness of the country, even quite near to Athens, was at first surprising.  Soon it became enchanting.

“This is a country I can thoroughly trust,” Rosamund declared at Marathon.

Dion had just finished hobbling the two horses, and now lifted himself up.  His brown face was flushed from bending.  His thin riding-clothes were white with dust, which he beat off with hands that looked almost as if they wore gloves, so deeply were they dyed by the sun.  As the cloud dispersed he emerged carrying their lunch in a straw pannier.

“Why trust—­specially?” he said.  “Ah,” he threw himself down by her side with a sigh of happiness, “this is good!  The historic mound, and we think of it merely as a resting-place, vandals that we are.  But—­why trust?”

“I mean that Greece never keeps any unpleasant surprises up her sleeve, surprises such as other countries have of noisy, intruding people.  It’s terrible how accustomed I’m getting to having everything all to myself, and how I simply love it.”

He began slowly unpacking the pannier, and laying its contents out on the mound.

“You’re a puzzle, Rosamund,” he said.

“Why?”

“You have a greater faculty for making yourself delightful to all sorts of people than I have found in any other person, woman or man.  And yet you are developing a perfect passion for solitude.”

“Do you want people here?”

“No.”

“Then you agree with me.”

“But you have an absolute lust for an empty world.”

“Look!”

She stretched out her right arm—­she was leaning on the other with her cheek in her hand—­and pointed to the crescent-shaped plain which lay beyond them, bounded by a sea which was a wonder of sparkling and intense blue, and guarded by a curving line of low hills.  There were some clouds in the sky, but the winds were at rest, and the clouds were just white things dreaming.  In the plain there were no trees.  Here and there some vague crops hinted at the languid labors of men.  No human beings were visible, but in the distance, not very far from the sea edge, a few oxen were feeding.  Their dark slow-moving bodies intersected the blue.  There were no ships or boats upon the stretch of sea which Rosamund and Dion gazed at.  Behind them the bare hills showed no sign of life.  The solitude was profound but not startling.  It seemed in place, necessary and beautiful.  In the emptiness there was something touching, something reticently satisfying.  It was a land and seascape delicately purged.

“Greece and solitude,” said Rosamund.  “I shall always connect them together.  I shall always love each for the other’s sake.”

In the silence which followed the words the far-off lowing of oxen came to them over the flats.  Rosamund shut her eyes, Dion half shut his, and the empty world was a shining dream.

When they had lunched, Rosamund said: