Half-way down the cliff, a little ruined shrine stood in the garden. The broken grey-brown tracery of the window framed an exquisite panorama of water and distant hills, brilliantly blue and green. The nook stood away from the main path; and was quite enclosed by sun-kissed foliage, and canopied with vines and ivy. Hadrian was spending a morning here, alone with cigarettes and the _Epinikia_ of Pindaros and His thoughts. The air was fragrant with the perfume of southernwood and the generous sun. He rested in a low cane-chair, soaking Himself in light and peace. His eyes were turned to the far distant shore where the great grove of ilex cast deep tralucid shadows in the water. A tiny slip of pink shot from sunlight to shade: another followed: two tiny splashes of silver spray arose, and vanished: two blue-black dots appeared in the rippled mirror. Hadrian envied the young swimmers. He remembered all the wild unfettered boundless sensuous joy of only a little while ago. Was the fisherman still down there with his boat and the brown boy who rowed it? He wondered what the world would say if the Pope were to swim in sunlit Nemi--or in moonlit. Ah, the mild tepidity of moonlit water, the clean cold caress of moonlit air! Not that He cared jot or tittle for what the world might say--personally. No. But---- No. If He were to ask for the use of the boat, tongues would clack. And He could not go alone with the deliberate intention. Still--didn't Peter swim in Galilee. Weren't the Attendolo gardens private? Some night He might stroll down to the shore: the water was fathomless at once: there need be no wading with the ripples horribly creeping up one's flesh--Yaff! But the toads on the path, and the lizards and the serpents in the grass--oh no. Then, thus it must be: the Pope must not go to seek His pleasure: if God should deign to afford His Vicegerent the recreation of swimming, an opportunity would be provided. Otherwise---- Little footsteps pattered down the glade. His retreat was about to be invaded. Three children burst through the shrubs--and stood transfixed. They were a couple of black-eyed black-haired girls, and a very pale-coloured very delicately-articulated slim and stalwart baby-boy with dark-star-like eyes and brows superbly drawn. All Hadrian's fearful terror of children paralyzed Him. These limpid glances made Him feel such a hackneyed old sinner. But He shewed no outward tremor, looking gently and genially at His visitors, and wondering what (in the name of all the gods) He ought to say or do. Three nurses and an athletic tailor-made lady added their presence. "A thousand pardons, sir," a nurse exclaimed;--"O Santissimo Padre!"--Six knees flopped on the ground. "Missy," the boy announced, "I have found a white father. Why have I seen a white father before never?" His utterance was very deliberate, and his English quite devoid of accented syllables.