“I'd have Harold,” I said reflectively, “and Charlotte. They'd like it awfully. The others are getting too old. Oh! and Martha—I'd have Martha to cook and wash up and do things. You'd like Martha. She's ever so much nicer than Aunt Eliza. She's my idea of a real lady.”
“Then I'm sure I should like her,” he replied heartily, “and when I come to—what do you call this city of yours? Nephelo—something, did you say!”
“I—I don't know,” I replied timidly. “I'm afraid it hasn't got a name—yet.”
The artist gazed out over the downs. “'The poet says dear city of Cecrops;'” he said softly to himself, “'and wilt not thou say, dear city of Zeus?' That's from Marcus Aurelius,” he went on, turning again to his work. “You don't know him, I suppose; you will some day.”
“Who's he?” I inquired.
“Oh, just another fellow who lived in Rome,” he replied, dabbing away.
“O dear!” I cried, disconsolately. “What a lot of people seem to live at Rome, and I've never even been there! But I think I'd like my city best.”
“And so would I,” he replied with unction. “But Marcus Aurelius wouldn't, you know.”
“Then we won't invite him,” I said: “will we?”
“I won't if you won't,” said he. And that point being settled, we were silent for a while.