"You must go to Delphi, of course," she said. "But," she asked herself, "what do I want from him? Perhaps it is something that I have missed...." "You will get there about six in the evening," she said. "You will see the eagles." Jacob looked set and even desperate by the light at the street corner and yet composed. He was suffering, perhaps. He was credulous. Yet there was something caustic about him. He had in him the seeds of extreme disillusionment, which would come to him from women in middle life. Perhaps if one strove hard enough to reach the top of the hill it need not come to him--this disillusionment from women in middle life. "The hotel is awful," she said. "The last visitors had left their basins full of dirty water. There is always that," she laughed. "The people one meets ARE beastly," Jacob said. His excitement was clear enough. "Write and tell me about it," she said. "And tell me what you feel and what you think. Tell me everything." The night was dark. The Acropolis was a jagged mound. "I should like to, awfully," he said. "When we get back to London, we shall meet..." "Yes." "I suppose they leave the gates open?" he asked. "We could climb them!" she answered wildly. Obscuring the moon and altogether darkening the Acropolis the clouds passed from east to west. The clouds solidified; the vapours thickened; the trailing veils stayed and accumulated. It was dark now over Athens, except for gauzy red streaks where the streets ran; and the front of the Palace was cadaverous from electric light. At sea the piers stood out, marked by separate dots; the waves being invisible, and promontories and islands were dark humps with a few lights. "I'd love to bring my brother, if I may," Jacob murmured. "And then when your mother comes to London--," said Sandra. The mainland of Greece was dark; and somewhere off Euboea a cloud must have touched the waves and spattered them--the dolphins circling deeper and deeper into the sea. Violent was the wind now rushing down the Sea of Marmara between Greece and the plains of Troy. In Greece and the uplands of Albania and Turkey, the wind scours the sand and the dust, and sows itself thick with dry particles. And then it pelts the smooth domes of the mosques, and makes the cypresses, standing stiff by the turbaned tombstones of Mohammedans, creak and bristle. Sandra's veils were swirled about her. "I will give you my copy," said Jacob. "Here. Will you keep it?" (The book was the poems of Donne.)