“Am I to have luncheon with you, mother-dear?” The child’s eyes were on her mother’s face. “With me--yes.” The reply was prompt--if a little tremulous. The child sighed happily. “It is being a marvellous day,” she said, quaintly. The mother smiled. “Come and get ready for luncheon, and then you shall tell me about the wonderful man.” So it came about that Betty Harris, seated across the dark, shining table, told her mother, Mrs. Philip Harris, a happy adventure wherein she, Betty Harris, who had never before set foot unattended in the streets of Chicago, had wandered for an hour and more in careless freedom, and straying at last into the shop of a marvellous Greek--one Achilles Alexandrakis by name--had heard strange tales of Greece and Athens and the Parthenon--tales at the very mention of which her eyes danced and her voice rippled. And her mother, listening across the table, trembled at the dangers the child touched upon and flitted past. It had been part of the careful rearing of Betty Harris that she should not guess that the constant attendance upon her was a body-guard--such as might wait upon a princess. It had never occurred to Betty Harris that other little girls were not guarded from the moment they rose in the morning till they went to bed at night, and that even at night Miss Stone slept within sound of her breath. She had grown up happy and care-free, with no suspicion of the danger that threatened the child of a marked millionaire. She did not even know that her father was a very rich man--so protected had she been. She was only a little more simple than most children of twelve. And she met the world with straight, shining looks, speaking to rich and poor with a kind of open simplicity that won the heart. Her mother, watching the clear eyes, had a sudden pang of what the morning might have been--the disillusionment and terror of this unprotected hour--that had been made instead a memory of delight--thanks to an unknown Greek named Achilles Alexandrakis, who had told her of the beauties of Greece and the Parthenon, and had given her fresh pomegranates to carry home in a round box. The mother’s thoughts rested on the man with a quick sense of gratitude. He should be paid a thousand times over for his care of Betty Harris--and for pomegranates. “They are like the Parthenon,” said the child, holding one in her hand and turning it daintily to catch the light on its pink surface. “They grew in Athens.” She set her little teeth firmly in its round side. IV AND ACHILLES DREAMS