Mr. Livingstone had said something sentimental about man's love being based on the instinct to cherish and protect, and woman's on the desire to be cherished and protected. Eugenia had acquiesced; Marise, who hated talk, sentimental or otherwise, about love, had said nothing. But Mr. Crittenden had protested, "Oh, Livingstone, you've got that twisted. That's the basis of love between group-ups and children. You don't insult your equals trying to 'protect them'! Nothing would get me more up in the air than to have somebody 'protect' me from life. Why should I want to do it to anybody else? Protect your grandmother! A woman wants to be let alone to take her chances in life as much as a man!" V They were crossing the Forum, on their way to a stroll in the shady walks of the Palatine. From the battered, shapeless ruins of what had been the throbbing center of the world rose suffocatingly to Marise's senses the effluvium of weariness and decay. She always felt that Rome's antiquity breathed out upon her a cold, dusty _taedium vitae_. She thought of this, turning an attentive face and inattentive ear to Mr. Livingstone, who was trying to make out from his guide-book where the Temple of Mars had stood. "You're holding that map wrong end to," said Mr. Crittenden. "It's too hot to stand here in the sun," said Eugenia very sensibly. They passed on, over heaps of ancient refuse, into the ruins of the myriad-celled palace of the Caesars, silent now, not an echo left of all the humming, poisonous intrigues that had filled it full. "Here," said Mr. Livingstone, stopping in a vaulted, half-wrecked chamber, ostensibly to comment on things, really to get his breath after the climb, "here in such a room, only lined and paved with priceless marbles, and hung with Asiatic silks, here you lay at ease in an embroidered toga on a gold-mounted couch, and clapped your hands for a slave to bring you your Falernian wine, cooled with snow from Monte Cavo,--that was the life!" "I thought it was in the Arabian Nights you clapped your hands for a slave," said Eugenia. "In Rome you probably cracked a whip," suggested Mr. Crittenden. "But I bet you a nickel it didn't make any difference _what_ you did, your slave came when he got good and ready and brought you another kind of wine from the one you ordered--and lukewarm at that. They'd probably used up all the Monte Cavo snow to cool the wine down in the slaves' hall." "What possible basis have you for saying all _that_?" cried Mr. Livingstone, exasperated. "That's the way things are! Folks that try to use slave labor always get what's coming to them in the way of poor service." "Oh, but in Rome you had the right to kill him!" cried Mr. Livingstone, jealous of his rights.