"Of course," said I. "Don't see what they ever came away for; _I_ wouldn't. To be told you've broken things when you haven't, and stopped having tea with the servants in the kitchen, and not allowed to have a dog to sleep with you. But _I've_ known people, too, who've gone there." The artist stared, but without incivility. "Well, there's Lancelot," I went on. "The book says he died, but it never seemed to read right, somehow. He just went away, like Arthur. And Crusoe, when he got tired of wearing clothes and being respectable. And all the nice men in the stories who don't marry the Princess, 'cos only one man ever gets married in a book, you know. They'll be there!" "And the men who fail," he said, "who try like the rest, and toil, and eat their hearts out, and somehow miss--or break down or get bowled over in the mêlée--and get no Princess, nor even a second-class kingdom--some of them'll be there, I hope?" "Yes, if you like," I replied, not quite understanding him; "if they're friends of yours, we'll ask 'em, of course." "What a time we shall have!" said the artist reflectively; "and how shocked old Marcus Aurelius will be!" The shadows had lengthened uncannily, a tide of golden haze began to flood the grey-green surface of the downs, and the artist put his traps together, preparatory to a move. I felt very low: we would have to part, it seemed, just as we were getting on so well together. Then he stood up, and he was very straight and tall, and the sunset was in his hair and beard as he stood there, high over me. He took my hand like an equal. "I've enjoyed our conversation very much," he said. "That was an interesting subject you started, and we haven't half exhausted it. We shall meet again, I hope?" "Of course we shall," I replied, surprised that there should be any doubt about it. "In Rome perhaps?" said he. "Yes, in Rome," I answered; "or Piccy-the-other-place, or somewhere." "Or else," said he, "in that other city--when we've found the way there. And I'll look out for you, and you'll sing out as soon as you see me. And we'll go down the street arm-in-arm, and into all the shops, and then I'll choose my house, and you'll choose your house, and we'll live there like princes and good fellows." "Oh, but you'll stay in my house, won't you?" I cried; "I wouldn't ask everybody; but I'll ask _you_." He affected to consider a moment; then "Right!" he said: "I believe you mean it, and I _will_ come and stay with you. I won't go to anybody else, if they ask me ever so much. And I'll stay quite a long time, too, and I won't be any trouble."