went on, turning again to his work. "You don't know him, I suppose; you will some day."
"Who's he?" I inquired.
"Oh, just another fellow who lived in Rome," he replied, dabbing away.
"O dear!" I cried, disconsolately. "What a lot of people seem to live at Rome, and I've never even been there! But I think I'd like my city best."
"And so would I," he replied with unction. "But Marcus Aurelius wouldn't, you know."
"Then we won't invite him," I said: "will we?"
"I won't if you won't," said he. And that point being settled, we were silent for a while.
"Do you know," he said presently, "I've met one or two fellows from time to time, who have been to a city like yours - perhaps it was the same one. They won't talk much about it - only broken hints, now and then; but they've been there sure enough. They don't seem to care about anything in particular - and everything's the same to them, rough or smooth; and sooner or later they slip off and disappear; and you never see them again. Gone back, I suppose."
"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
