dn't you like," I inquired, "to find a city without any people in
it at all?"

He looked puzzled. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand," said he.

"I mean," I went on eagerly, "a city where you walk in at the gates, and
the shops are all full of beautiful things, and the houses furnished as
grand as can be, and there isn't anybody there whatever! And you go into
the shops, and take anything you want--chocolates and magic lanterns and
injirubber balls--and there's nothing to pay; and you choose your own
house and live there and do just as you like, and never go to bed unless
you want to!"

The artist laid down his brush. "That WOULD be a nice city," he said.
"Better than Rome. You can't do that sort of thing in Rome,--or in
Piccadilly either. But I fear it's one of the places I've never been
to."

"And you'd ask your friends," I went on, warming to my subject,--"only
those you really like, of course,--and they'd each have a house to
themselves,--there'd be lots of houses,--and no relations at all, unless
they promised they'd be pleasant, and if they weren't they'd have to
go."

"So you wouldn't have any relations?" said the artist. "Well, perhaps
you're right. We have tastes in common, I see."

"I'd have Harold," I said, reflectively, "and Charlotte. They'd like
it awfully. The others are getting too old. Oh, and Martha--I'd have
Martha, to cook and wash up and do things. You'd like Martha. She's ever
so much nicer than Aunt Eliza. She's my idea of a real lady."

"Then I'm sure I should like her," he replied, heartily, "and when I
come to--what do you call this city of yours? Nephelo--something, did
you say?"

"I--I don't know," I replied, timidly. "I'm afraid it hasn't got a
name--yet."

The artist gazed out over the downs. "'The poet says, dear city of
Cecrops;'" he said, softly, to himself, "'and wilt not thou say, dear
city of Zeus?' That's from Marcus Aurelius," he 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