To the south, where the lawn sloped down to the empty fountain basin and was bisected by a narrow walk along which still flamed the valiant and invincible perennials, the aspect was less ruinous. Conkling could make out iris and phlox and ragged sailor and golden glow and tiger lilies in a glorious tangle and riot of color. Beyond the sundial he could discern an arbor with broken seats, and beyond that again the heavy and huddled foliage which on all sides screened in from the outside world that little area of color and quietness. The next moment, however, his casually wandering glance came to a stop. It came to a stop abruptly, with his startled attention balking as a colt balks at a shadow across the roadway of reason. For before him, in the unequivocal open light of the afternoon, he saw an overturned marble sarcophagus. It was the sort of thing one stumbled across now and then in Italy, the sort of thing he had himself seen crated and lowered into ships’ holds at Palermo and Catania, the sort of thing they kept behind brass railings in New World museums. But here it stood weather-stained on a slope of turf, with three tin milk-pans sunning on its mottled upturned bottom. He sat squinting at the strange thing for a full minute. Then he turned to speak to the girl in the lilac sunbonnet. But he did not speak. For from the direction of the house came the sound of a new and quite unexpected voice. It was a thin and acrid voice, obviously barbed with indignation. “Julia!” was the repeated and reproving cry which echoed through the quietness. The girl with the rose shears, more childlike than ever, turned a frightened face toward the house. But she did not answer. “Is that a man in the grounds?” demanded the distant monitorial voice. And Conkling, for the first time, was no longer at his ease. “Y-yes,” the girl called hesitatingly back. Her face was quite pale, and the meekness in her voice rather disturbed the man at the easel. He peered about for the author of that over-disturbing challenge, but he could see nothing. “Lavinia,” commanded the shrill and mysteriously distant voice—and Conkling for a moment wondered why that name should fret his memory with an uncaptured association—“Lavinia, unchain Nero at once!” Conkling caught a sound like a gasp from the girl with the shears. “Please don’t mind,” she said without turning her head. “He’s so old!” “Who’s so old?” asked Conkling. He had begun to repack his thumb box. “Nero. I have to soak his bread crusts for him. He has no teeth left. But I really think you ought to go!” There was no misjudging her distress. It amounted almost to terror, and the mystery of it was sufficient to revive his audacity. “May I come back?” he asked, tingling a trifle before the amazed innocence of her eyes. “What good could it do?” she found the courage to inquire. “That’s what I intended to find out,” he told her. He said it more determinedly than he had intended.