The shafts of white light, as they pierced between the interstices of the trees were dazzling, so bright, indeed, that the light seemed to hide rather than to reveal. Perry overtook an old man, evidently an artist, with portable easel and canvas, who was walking slowly, very slowly, along the road. He had not passed him more than five minutes, when, before him, at the end of the road, seen through the long line of trees, a faint blue object shimmered against the deep-blue sky. In the hot and wavering air it seemed to float. The boy stopped dead.
Little by little, as his eye took a steadier focus, the Great Pyramid of Cheops revealed itself to him, as do scenes in misty pictures. He stood rooted to the spot.
A hoarse voice, that yet seemed to have a child’s eagerness in its tones, spoke over his shoulder.
“What does it make you think of?” said the voice.
“It’s like Euclid turned into music,” responded Perry, half turning to the old artist, who had overtaken him as he stood gazing at his first sight of the Pyramid.
“H’m,” said his new friend, looking at the boy. “That’s quite an intelligent reply.”
He walked on, and Perry, struck by something very likable in the old artist, fell into step beside him. For at least ten minutes neither spoke, and then the artist repeated,
“Euclid turned into music! H’m.”
He turned to the lad suddenly.
“You paint?”