There they are again, the pillars, the pediment, the Temple of Victory and the Erechtheum, set on a tawny rock cleft with shadows, directly you unlatch your shutters in the morning and, leaning out, hear the clatter, the clamour, the whip cracking in the street below.  There they are.

The extreme definiteness with which they stand, now a brilliant white, again yellow, and in some lights red, imposes ideas of durability, of the emergence through the earth of some spiritual energy elsewhere dissipated in elegant trifles.  But this durability exists quite independently of our admiration.  Although the beauty is sufficiently humane to weaken us, to stir the deep deposit of mud—­memories, abandonments, regrets, sentimental devotions—­the Parthenon is separate from all that; and if you consider how it has stood out all night, for centuries, you begin to connect the blaze (at midday the glare is dazzling and the frieze almost invisible) with the idea that perhaps it is beauty alone that is immortal.

Added to this, compared with the blistered stucco, the new love songs rasped out to the strum of guitar and gramophone, and the mobile yet insignificant faces of the street, the Parthenon is really astonishing in its silent composure; which is so vigorous that, far from being decayed, the Parthenon appears, on the contrary, likely to outlast the entire world.

“And the Greeks, like sensible men, never bothered to finish the backs of their statues,” said Jacob, shading his eyes and observing that the side of the figure which is turned away from view is left in the rough.

He noted the slight irregularity in the line of the steps which “the artistic sense of the Greeks preferred to mathematical accuracy,” he read in his guide-book.

He stood on the exact spot where the great statue of Athena used to stand, and identified the more famous landmarks of the scene beneath.

In short he was accurate and diligent; but profoundly morose.  Moreover he was pestered by guides.  This was on Monday.

But on Wednesday he wrote a telegram to Bonamy, telling him to come at once.  And then he crumpled it in his hand and threw it in the gutter.

“For one thing he wouldn’t come,” he thought.  “And then I daresay this sort of thing wears off.”  “This sort of thing” being that uneasy, painful feeling, something like selfishness—­one wishes almost that the thing would stop—­it is getting more and more beyond what is possible—­ “If it goes on much longer I shan’t be able to cope with it—­but if some one else were seeing it at the same time—­Bonamy is stuffed in his room in Lincoln’s Inn—­oh, I say, damn it all, I say,”—­the sight of Hymettus, Pentelicus, Lycabettus on one side, and the sea on the other, as one stands in the Parthenon at sunset, the sky pink feathered, the plain all colours, the marble tawny in one’s eyes, is thus oppressive.  Luckily Jacob had little sense of personal association;