Then he paused... his voice laughed a little, and he spoke of his people.... Nobody could have quite told what he said to them about his people. But flutes sang. The sound of feet was on the grass--touching it in tune--swift-flitting feet that paused and held a rhythmic measure while it swung. Quick-beating feet across the green. Shadowy forms. The sway of gowns, light-falling, and the call of voices low and sweet. Greek youth and maid in swiftest play. They flung the branches wide and trembled in the voiceless light that played upon the grass. The foot of Achilles half-beat the time. The tones filled themselves and lifted, slowly, surely. The voice quickened--it ran with faster notes, as one who tells some eager tale. Then it swung in cradling-song the twilight of Athens--and the little birds sang low, twittering underneath the leaves--in softest garb--at last--rose leaves falling--the dusky bats around her roof-tops, and the high-soaring sky that arches all--mysterious and deep. Then the voice sank low, and rang and held the note--stern, splendid--Athens of might. City of Power! Glory, in changing word, and in the lift of eye. Athens on her hills, like great Jove enthroned--the shout, the triumph, the clash of steel, and the feet of Alaric in the streets. The voice of the Greek grew hoarse now, tiny cords swelled on his forehead. Athens, city of war. Desolation, fire, and trampling--! His eye was drawn in light. Vandal hand and iron foot!... Who shall say how much of it he told--how much of it he spoke, and how much was only hinted or called up--in his voice and his gesture and his eye. They had not known that Athens was like this! They spoke in lowered voices, moving apart a little, and making place for the silver trays that began to pass among them. They glanced now and then at the dark man nibbling his biscuit absently and looking with unfathomable eyes into a teacup. A large woman approached him, her ample bust covered with little beads that rose and fell and twinkled as she talked. “I liked your talk, Mr. Alexis, and I am going over just as soon as my husband can get away from his business.” She looked at him with approval, waiting for his. He bowed with deep, grave gesture. “My country is honoured, madame.” Other listeners were crowding upon them now, commending the fire-tipped words, felicitating the man with pretty gesture and soft speech, patronising him for the Parthenon and his country and her art. ... The mistress of the house, moving in and out among them, watched the play with a little look of annoyance.... He would be spoiled--a man of that class. She glanced down at the slip of paper in her hand. It bore the name, “Achilles Alexandrakis,” and below it a generous sum to his order. She made her way toward him, and waited while he disengaged himself from the little throng about him and came to her, a look of pleasure and service in his face. “You speak to me, madame?”