"I mean," I went on eagerly, "a city where you walk in at the gates, and the shops are all full of beautiful things, and the houses furnished as grand as can be, and there isn't anybody there whatever! And you go into the shops, and take anything you want--chocolates and magic-lanterns and injirubber balls--and there's nothing to pay; and you choose your own house and live there and do just as you like, and never go to bed unless you want to!" The artist laid down his brush. "That _would_ be a nice city," he said. "Better than Rome. You can't do that sort of thing in Rome--or in Piccadilly either. But I fear it's one of the places I've never been to." "And you'd ask your friends," I went on, warming to my subject; "only those whoyou really like, of course; and they'd each have a house to themselves--there'd be lots of houses, and no relations at all, unless they promised they'd be pleasant, and if they weren't they'd have to go." "So you wouldn't have any relations?" said the artist. "Well, perhaps you're right. We have tastes in common, I see." "I'd have Harold," I said reflectively, "and Charlotte. They'd like it awfully. The others are getting too old. Oh! and Martha--I'd have Martha to cook and wash up and do things. You'd like Martha. She's ever so much nicer than Aunt Eliza. She's my idea of a real lady." "Then I'm sure I should like her," he replied heartily, "and when I come to--what do you call this city of yours? Nephelo--something, did you say!" "I--I don't know," I replied timidly. "I'm afraid it hasn't got a name--yet." The artist gazed out over the downs. "'The poet says dear city of Cecrops;'" he said softly to himself, "'and wilt not thou say, dear city of Zeus?' That's from Marcus Aurelius," he went on, turning again to his work. "You don't know him, I suppose; you will some day." "Who's he?" I inquired. "Oh, just another fellow who lived in Rome," he replied, dabbing away. "O dear!" I cried, disconsolately. "What a lot of people seem to live at Rome, and I've never even been there! But I think I'd like _my_ city best." "And so would I," he replied with unction. "But Marcus Aurelius wouldn't, you know." "Then we won't invite him," I said: "will we?" "_I_ won't if you won't," said he. And that point being settled, we were silent for a while. "Do you know," he said presently, "I've met one or two fellows from time to time, who have been to a city like yours--perhaps it was the same one. They won't talk much about it--only broken hints, now and then; but they've been there sure enough. They don't seem to care about anything in particular--and everything's the same to them, rough or smooth; and sooner or later they slip off and disappear; and you never see them again. Gone back, I suppose."