“The hotel is awful,” she said.  “The last visitors had left their basins full of dirty water.  There is always that,” she laughed.

“The people one meets are beastly,” Jacob said.

His excitement was clear enough.

“Write and tell me about it,” she said.  “And tell me what you feel and what you think.  Tell me everything.”

The night was dark.  The Acropolis was a jagged mound.

“I should like to, awfully,” he said.

“When we get back to London, we shall meet...”

“Yes.”

“I suppose they leave the gates open?” he asked.

“We could climb them!” she answered wildly.

Obscuring the moon and altogether darkening the Acropolis the clouds passed from east to west.  The clouds solidified; the vapours thickened; the trailing veils stayed and accumulated.

It was dark now over Athens, except for gauzy red streaks where the streets ran; and the front of the Palace was cadaverous from electric light.  At sea the piers stood out, marked by separate dots; the waves being invisible, and promontories and islands were dark humps with a few lights.

“I’d love to bring my brother, if I may,” Jacob murmured.

“And then when your mother comes to London—­,” said Sandra.

The mainland of Greece was dark; and somewhere off Euboea a cloud must have touched the waves and spattered them—­the dolphins circling deeper and deeper into the sea.  Violent was the wind now rushing down the Sea of Marmara between Greece and the plains of Troy.

In Greece and the uplands of Albania and Turkey, the wind scours the sand and the dust, and sows itself thick with dry particles.  And then it pelts the smooth domes of the mosques, and makes the cypresses, standing stiff by the turbaned tombstones of Mohammedans, creak and bristle.

Sandra’s veils were swirled about her.

“I will give you my copy,” said Jacob.  “Here.  Will you keep it?”

(The book was the poems of Donne.)

Now the agitation of the air uncovered a racing star.  Now it was dark.  Now one after another lights were extinguished.  Now great towns—­Paris—­ Constantinople—­London—­were black as strewn rocks.  Waterways might be distinguished.  In England the trees were heavy in leaf.  Here perhaps in some southern wood an old man lit dry ferns and the birds were startled.  The sheep coughed; one flower bent slightly towards another.  The English sky is softer, milkier than the Eastern.  Something gentle has passed into it from the grass-rounded hills, something damp.  The salt gale blew in at Betty Flanders’s bedroom window, and the widow lady, raising herself slightly on her elbow, sighed like one who realizes, but would fain ward off a little longer—­oh, a little longer!—­the oppression of eternity.

But to return to Jacob and Sandra.

They had vanished.  There was the Acropolis; but had they reached it?  The columns and the Temple remain; the emotion of the living breaks fresh on them year after year; and of that what remains?