“My daughter has told me of you—­” Her hand rested lightly on the child’s curls—­a safe, unrumpled touch.  “Her visit to you has enchanted her.  She speaks of it every day, of the Parthenon and what you told her.”

The eyes of the man and the child met gravely.

“I wondered whether you would be willing to tell some friends of mine—­here—­now—­”

He had turned to her—­a swift look.

She replied with a smile.  “Nothing formal—­just simple things, such as you told the child.  We should be very grateful to you,” she added, as if she were a little surprised at herself.

He looked at her with clear eyes.  “I speak—­yes—­I like always—­to speak of my country.  I thank you.”

The child, standing by with eager feet, moved lightly.  Her hands danced in softest pats.  “You will tell them about it—­just as you told me—­and they will love it!”

“I tell them—­yes!”

“Come, Miss Stone.”  The child held out her hand with a little gesture of pride and loving.  “We must go now.  Good-bye, Mr. Achilles.  You will come again, please.”

“I come,” said Achilles, simply.  He watched the quaint figure pass down the long rooms beside the shimmering grey dress, through an arched doorway at the end, and out of sight.  Then he turned to his hostess with the quick smile of his race.  “She is beautiful, madame,” he said, slowly.  “She is a child!”

The mother assented, absently.  She was not thinking of the child, but of the fifty members of the Halcyon Club in the library.  “Will you come?” she said.  “My friends are waiting.”

He spread his hands in quick assent.  “I come—­as you like.  I give pleasure—­to come.”

She smiled a little.  “Yes, you give pleasure.”  She was somehow at ease about the man.  He was poor—­illiterate, perhaps, but not uncouth.  She glanced at him with a little look of approval as they went up the staircase.  It came to her suddenly that he harmonised with it, and with all the beautiful things about them.  The figure of Professor Trent flashed upon her—­short and fat and puffing, and yearning toward the top of the stair.  But this man.  There was the grand air about him—­and yet so simple.

It was almost with a sense of eclat that she ushered him into the library.  The air stirred subtly, with a little hush.  The president was on her feet, introducing Mr. Achilles Alexandrakis, who, in the unavoidable absence of Professor Trent, had kindly consented to speak to them on the traditions and customs of modern Greek life.

Achilles’s eyes fell gently on the lifted faces.  “I like to tell you about my home,” he said, simply.  “I tell you all I can.”

The look of strain in the faces relaxed.  It was going to be an easy lecture—­one that you could know something about.  They settled to soft attention and approval.

Achilles waited a minute—­looking at them with deep eyes.  And suddenly they saw that the eyes were not looking at them, but at something far away—­something beautiful and loved.