“Thank you, my boy, I will,” said the stranger, and he followed Marcus through the shady garden and into the lately vacated room, where the boy placed a chair, and his visitor sank into it with a sigh of relief.
“Have you walked far?” he asked.
“Yes, some distance,” was the reply; “but the country is very beautiful, especially through the woodlands, and very pleasant to one who is fresh from the hot and crowded city.”
“The city!” cried Marcus, eagerly. “You don’t mean Rome?”
“I do mean Rome,” said the visitor, leaning back smiling, and with his eyes half closed, but keenly reading the boy the while. “Have you ever been there?”
“Oh no,” said Marcus, quickly, “but I know all about it. My father often used to tell me about Rome.”
“Your father? May I ask who your father is?”
“Cracis,” said the boy, drawing himself up proudly, as if he felt it an honour to speak of such a man. “He used to live in Rome. You’ve come from there. Did you ever hear of him?”
“Cracis? Cracis? Yes, I have heard the name. Is he at home?”
“No; he went out this morning; but I daresay he will be back soon. Serge is out too.”