in a clump of oleander. I sat down by him and informed him roundly that his conduct needed an explanation. He half turned his head, and his dark pupil gleamed an instant.
"I understand," he said, "you think me crazy!" And he tapped his forehead.
"No, not crazy, but unhappy. And if unhappiness runs its course too freely, of course, our poor wits are sorely tried."
He was silent awhile, and then, "I'm not unhappy!" he cried abruptly. "I'm prodigiously happy. You would n't believe the satisfaction I take in sitting here and staring at that old weather-worn Hermes. Formerly I used to be afraid of him: his frown used to remind me of a little bushy-browed old priest who taught me Latin and looked at me terribly over the book when I stumbled in my Virgil. But now it seems to me the friendliest, jolliest thing in the world, and suggests the most delightful images. He stood pouting his great lips in some old Roman's garden two thousand years ago. He saw the sandalled feet treading the alleys and the rose-crowned heads bending over the wine; he knew the old feasts and the old worship, the old Romans and the old gods. As I sit here he speaks to me, in his own dumb way, and describes it all! No, no, my friend, I 'm the happiest of men!"
