“That?” Achilles’s face was alight. “That is Greek.” She nodded. “I know. I study it; but what is it--the word?” “The word!--Ah, yes, it is--How you say? You shall see.” He reached out a hand to the box. But the child stopped him. A quick thought had come to her. “You have been in Athens, haven’t you? I want to ask you something, please.” The hand dropped from the box. The man turned about, waiting. If heaven were to open to him now--! “I’ve always wanted to see a Greek man,” said the child, slowly, “a real Greek man. I’ve wanted to ask him something he would know about. Have you ever seen the Parthenon?” She put the question with quaint seriousness. A light came into the eyes of Achilles Alexandrakis. It flooded the room. “You ask me--the Parthenon?” he said, solemnly. “You wish me--tell that?” It was wistful--almost a cry of longing. Betty Harris nodded practically. “I’ve always wanted to know about it--the Parthenon. They tell you how long it is, and how wide, and what it is made of, and who began it, and who finished it, and who destroyed it, but they never, never”--she raised her small hand impressively--“they _never_ tell you how it looks!” Achilles brought a chair and placed it near the open door. “Will it--kindly--you sit?” he said, gravely. She seated herself, folding her hands above the music-roll, and lifting her eyes to the dark face looking down at her. “Thank you.” Achilles leaned back against the counter, thinking a little. He sighed gently. “I tell you many things,” he said at last. “About the Parthenon, please,” said Betty Harris. “You like Athens?” He said it like a child. “I should like it--if they would tell me real things. I don’t seem to make them understand. But when they say how beautiful it is--I feel it here.” She laid her small hand to her side. The smile of Achilles held the glory in its depths. “I tell you,” he said. The clear face reflected the smile. A breath of waiting held the lips. “Yes.” Achilles leaned again upon his counter. His face was rapt, and he spread his finger-tips a little, as if something within them stirred to be free. “It stands so high and lifts itself”--Achilles raised his dark hands--“ruined there--so great--and far beneath, the city lies, drawing near and near, and yet it cannot reach... And all around is light--and light--and light. Here it is a cellar”--his hands closed in with crushing touch--“but there--!” He flung the words from him like a chant of music, and a sky stretched about them from side to side, blue as sapphire and shedding radiant light upon the city in its midst--a city of fluted column and curving cornice and temple and arch and tomb. The words rolled on, fierce and eager. It was a song of triumph, with war and sorrow and mystery running beneath the sound of joy. And the child, listening with grave, clear eyes, smiled a little, holding her breath. “I see it--I see it!” She half whispered the words.