The boys could not make him out... and their loyalty would not let them question him.  But one day Yaxis, resting on the parapet that overlooked the lake, his cart drawn a little to one side, his hat off and his face taking in the breeze, saw a strange sight.  It was a wide roadway, and free of traffic, and Yaxis had turned his head and looked up and down its length.  In the distance a car was coming—­it was not speeding.  It seemed coming on with little foolish movements—­halting jerks and impatient honks....  Yaxis’s eye rested on it bewildered—­then it broke to a smile.  Father was driving!  The chauffeur, beside him, with folded arms and set face had washed his hands of all responsibility—­and the face of the Greek was shining.  The great machine swerved and balked and ran a little way and stopped—­Yaxis laughed softly.  The chauffeur bent over with a word, and the thing shot off, Achilles with intent back, holding fast by both hands his face set and shining ahead.  Up and down the roadway, the thing zigzagged—­back and forth—­spitting a little and fizzing behind.  Like a great beast it snarled and snorted and stood out and waited the lash—­and came to terms, gliding at last, by a touch along the smooth road—­the face of Achilles transfigured in a dream....  The Acropolis floated behind him in the haze.  The wings of the morning waited his coming and his hands gripped hard on the wheel of the world.  Yaxis watched the car as it flashed and floated in the sun and was gone—­down the roadway—­around the distant corner—­out of sight, with its faint triumphant “honk-honk-honk!” trailing behind.

With a deep smile on his face Yaxis wheeled his cart into the roadway and pushed briskly toward home, his mind filled with the vision of his father and the flying car.

The next day coming down the steps of a house and counting slow change, he looked up with a swift glance—­something had passed him; for a moment he had only a glimpse—­something familiar—­a kind of home sense—­then the figure of Achilles flashed out—­the car shot round a corner.  He sped to the corner and looked down the long road—­no one—­only two rows of poplars with their silvery, stirring leaves, and not a soul in sight—­and respectable houses on either side watching, as if nothing had happened, or ever would.  Yaxis returned to his cart, wiping the fine moisture from his forehead.  Every day now, his glance travelled about him as he pushed his cart along the quieter streets where his route lay.  And often at the end of long vistas, or down a side street, he caught a glimpse of the shooting car and the dark, erect figure poised forward on its seat, looking far ahead.

At home, in the dusky interior, Achilles moved with sedate step, his hair combed, his slim hands busy with the smooth fruit.  Yaxis, in the doorway, looked at him with curious, wistful eyes.

Achilles glanced up and nodded, and the little smile on his dark face grew.  He came forward.  “You had good day?” he said.