“That’s the finishing touch,” said Rosamund. “White butterflies asleep in the house of Nero.”
She looked round over the ruins, poetic and beautiful in their prostration, as if they had fallen to kiss the vale which, in return, had folded them in an eternal embrace.
“Don’t take me to Delphi this time, Dion; don’t take me anywhere else,” she said.
“I was thinking only to-day that our time’s very short now. We lingered so long in Athens.”
“We’ll say our good-by to Greece from the Acropolis. That’s—of course! The grandeur and wonder are there. But the dream of Greece—that’s here. This is a shrine.”
“For Pan?”
“Oh no, not for Pan, though I dare say he often comes here.”
From the Kronos Hill, covered with little pines, came the mystical voice of the breeze, speaking to them in long and remote murmurs.
“That’s the most exquisite sound in the world,” Rosamund continued. “But it has nothing to do with Pan. You remember that day we went into the Russian church in Athens, Dion?”
“Yes.”