“I’m not a school-teacher, Achilles,” she said.

And Dion had to explain what she meant perhaps—­only perhaps, for he wasn’t sure about it himself,—­to that classical personage.

“These chairs fight against the whole thing,” she said, when Achilles was gone.

“I’ll hide them,” said Dion.

He was up in a moment, caught hold of the chairs, gripping one in each hand, and marched off with them.  When he came back Rosamund was no longer sitting on the ground by the tent wall.  She had slipped away.  He looked round.  She must have gone beyond the brow of the hill, for she was not on the plateau.  He hesitated, pulling hard at his pipe.  He knew her curious independence, knew that sometimes she wanted to be alone.  No doubt she had gone to look at the great view from some hidden place.  Well, then, he ought not to try to find her, he ought to respect her wish to be by herself.  But this evening it hurt him.  As he stood there he felt wounded, for he remembered telling her that the great view would be much more beautiful at sunset when the moon would be rising behind them.  The implication of course had been, “Wait a little and I’ll show you.”  It was he who had chosen the place for the camp, he who had prepared the surprise.  Perhaps foolishly, he had thought of the whole thing, even of the plain, the river, the mountains, the sea and the Island of Zante, as a sort of possession which he was going gloriously to share with her.  And now——!  He felt deprived, almost wronged.  The sky was changing.  He turned and looked to the east.  Above Olympia, in a clear and tremulous sky, a great silver moon was rising.  It was his hour, and she had hidden herself.

Again, at that moment, Dion felt almost afraid of his love.

His pipe had gone out.  He took it from his lips, bent, and knocked out the tobacco against the heel of his boot.  He was horribly disappointed, but he was not going to search for Rosamund; nor was he ever going to let her know of his disappointment.  Perhaps by concealing it he would kill it.  He thrust his pipe into his pocket, hesitated, then walked a little way from the camp and sat down on the side of the hill.  What rot it was his always wanting to share everything now.  Till he met Rosamund he had always thought only women could never be happy unless they shared their pleasures, and preferably with a man.  Love apparently could play the very devil, bridge the gulf between sexes, make a man who was thoroughly masculine in all his tastes and habits have “little feelings” which belonged properly only to women.

Doric!  Suddenly the word jumped up in his mind, and a vision of the Parthenon columns rose before his imagination, sternly glorious, almost with the strength of a menace.  He set his teeth together and cursed himself for a fool and a backslider.

Rosamund and he were to be Doric.  Well, this evening he didn’t know exactly what he was, but he certainly was not Doric.