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Lots of people we know in London would laugh at me for saying so, the people who talk of 'being Greek' and who never can be Greek. And he stood between Doric columns. I'm trying to learn something here." "What?" "How to bring him up if he ever comes." Dion felt for her hand. They stayed on for a week at Drouva.
"This is the top of the hill of Drouva," said Dion, with a ring of joy, and almost of pride, in his voice. "And there's our inn, the Inn of Drouva." Rosamund pulled up her horse. She did not say a word. She just looked, while her horse lowered his head and sniffed the air in through his twitching nostrils. Then he sent forth a quivering neigh, his welcome to the Inn of Drouva.
"Exactly," returned the doctor, looking at his nails. Dion saw the star falling above the hill of Drouva. Did the Hermes know? On the following Sunday afternoon Dion was able to fulfil his promise to Daventry. Rosamund and the baby were "doing beautifully"; he was not needed at home, so he set out with Daventry, who came to fetch him, to visit Mrs. Willie Chetwinde in Lowndes Square.
On his very first day they went together to the afternoon service in the Cathedral, and when the anthem was given out it proved to be "The Wilderness." Rosamund's quick look at Dion told him that this was her sweet doing, and that she remembered their talk on the hill of Drouva. He listened to that anthem as he had never listened to an anthem before.
"I know what he'll like better than anything." "Well?" "Your revolver, to be sure!" "My revolver to be suren't!" exclaimed Dion passionately, inventing a negative. "I bought it at great cost to defend you with, not for the endowment of a half-naked varmint from the wilderness under Drouva." "Be careful, Dion; you're insulting a Doric boy!" "Here I'll insult him with a ten-lepta piece."
He meant to prove to one woman that even a man could be unselfish, moved by something greater than himself. Up there on Drouva he had definitely dedicated himself to Rosamund. His acute pain when, coming back to the place where he had left her by the tent before sunset, he had not found her, his sense almost of smoldering anger, had startled him.
The two were now like carved things which could move, and only by their movements could they tell him anything. The gun over the boy's shoulder was like a long finger pointing to the west where a redness was creeping among the gold. The great moon climbed above Drouva. Bluish-gray smoke came from the camp-fire at a little distance. It ascended without wavering straight up in the windless evening.
"Why, there's a village up here!" said Rosamund, as they came to a small collection of houses with yards and rough gardens and scattered outbuildings. "Yes Drouva. Our inn is just beyond it, but quite separated from it." "I'm glad of that. They don't bother very much about cleanliness here, I should think." He was smiling at her now.
Yet her arm still lay on his, and she was his. Against the silver of the moon the twisted trunks of the two small olive trees showed black and significant. The red of the dying camp-fire glowed not far from the tent. Dogs were barking in the hamlet of Drouva. She neither saw details nor heard ugly sounds in the night. He knew that. And the rest?
Aren't mine different from Dirmikis's?" she exclaimed. "So much more succulent!" "Naturally, you great baby!" "Life is glorious!" she exclaimed resonantly. "To eat one's own bag on the top of Drouva under the moon! Oh!" She looked at the moon, then bent over her plate of metal-ware which was set on the tiny folding-table. In her joy she was exactly like a big child.
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