He turned, shook his head and went on his way, for he never visited the same girl twice. That was the only principle he carried out in his visits to the gardens. “Clonarion!” “Gnathene!” “Plango!” “Mnaïs!” “Crobyle!” “Iœsa!” They called out their names as he passed, and some added, as a further inducement, a phrase upon their own ardent nature. Demetrios continued his walk; he was inclined, as his usual custom was, to pick out one of them haphazard, when a little girl dressed in blue spoke to him softly. “Open the door for me,” he said. “I wish to speak to you.” The little girl jumped gaily to her feet and knocked twice with the knocker. An old slave opened the door. “Gorgo,” the girl said, “bring some wine and cakes.” She led the way into her chamber, which was very plain, like that of all very young courtesans. Two large beds, a little tapestry and a few chairs comprised the furniture, but through a large open bay could be seen the gardens, the sea, and the roadstead of Alexandria. Demetrios remained standing looking at the distant city. The sun sinking behind the harbour, that incomparable glory of a coast town, the calm sky, the purple waters, were they not enough to bring silence to any soul bursting with joy or sorrow! What footsteps would they not stay, what pleasure suspend and what voice they not hush? Demetrios watched: a swell of torrent-like flame seemed to leap out from the sun which had half sunk into the sea and to flow straight to the curved edge of the wood of Aphrodite. From one to another of the two horizons the rich purple tone overran the Mediterranean in zones of shades without transition from golden red to pale purple. Between the moving splendour and the green mirror of the Mareotis lake the white mass of the city was clothed in reddish violet reflections. The different aspects of its twenty thousand flat houses marvellously speckled it with twenty thousand patches of colour perpetually changing with the decreasing phasis of the rays in the west. Now it was rapid and fiery; then the sun was engulfed with almost startling suddenness and the first approach of the night caused a tremor throughout the earth and a hidden breeze. “Here are figs, sweets, honey and wine. You must eat the figs before it is dark.” The girl came in with a laugh. She made the young man sit down and took up her position upon his knees, refastening, as she did so, a rose in her hair which was in danger of falling out. Demetrios uttered an exclamation of surprise, she looked so young and childish that he felt full of pity for her. “But you are not a woman!” he cried. “I am not a woman! By the two Goddesses what am I then? a Thracian, a porter or an old philosopher?” “How old are you?” “Ten years and a half. Eleven years. You can say eleven. I was born in the gardens. My mother is a Milesian, her name is Pythias, nicknamed the ’Goat.’ Shall I send for her if you think I am too young? She has a soft skin and is very beautiful.”