It is safe to say that the members of the Halcyon Club had never listened to anything quite like the account that Achilles Alexandrakis gave them that day, in the gloomy room of the red-fronted house overlooking the lake, of the land of his birth.  They scarcely listened to the actual words at first, but they listened to him all lighted up from far away.  There was something about him as he spoke—­a sweeping rhythm that flew as a bird, reaching over great spaces, and a simple joy that lilted a little and sang.

He drew for them the Parthenon—­the glory of Athens—­in column and statue and mighty temple and crumbling tomb....  A sense of beauty and wonder and still, clear light passed before them.

Then he paused... his voice laughed a little, and he spoke of his people....  Nobody could have quite told what he said to them about his people.  But flutes sang.  The sound of feet was on the grass—­touching it in tune—­swift-flitting feet that paused and held a rhythmic measure while it swung.  Quick-beating feet across the green.  Shadowy forms.  The sway of gowns, light-falling, and the call of voices low and sweet.  Greek youth and maid in swiftest play.  They flung the branches wide and trembled in the voiceless light that played upon the grass.  The foot of Achilles half-beat the time.  The tones filled themselves and lifted, slowly, surely.  The voice quickened—­it ran with faster notes, as one who tells some eager tale.  Then it swung in cradling-song the twilight of Athens—­and the little birds sang low, twittering underneath the leaves—­in softest garb—­at last—­rose leaves falling—­the dusky bats around her roof-tops, and the high-soaring sky that arches all—­mysterious and deep.  Then the voice sank low, and rang and held the note—­stern, splendid—­Athens of might.  City of Power!  Glory, in changing word, and in the lift of eye.  Athens on her hills, like great Jove enthroned—­the shout, the triumph, the clash of steel, and the feet of Alaric in the streets.  The voice of the Greek grew hoarse now, tiny cords swelled on his forehead.  Athens, city of war.  Desolation, fire, and trampling—!  His eye was drawn in light.  Vandal hand and iron foot!...

Who shall say how much of it he told—­how much of it he spoke, and how much was only hinted or called up—­in his voice and his gesture and his eye.  They had not known that Athens was like this!  They spoke in lowered voices, moving apart a little, and making place for the silver trays that began to pass among them.  They glanced now and then at the dark man nibbling his biscuit absently and looking with unfathomable eyes into a teacup.

A large woman approached him, her ample bust covered with little beads that rose and fell and twinkled as she talked.  “I liked your talk, Mr. Alexis, and I am going over just as soon as my husband can get away from his business.”  She looked at him with approval, waiting for his.

He bowed with deep, grave gesture.  “My country is honoured, madame.”