to any other places,' I began again presently,
'besides Rome and Piccy-what's-his-name?'

'Heaps,' he said. 'I'm a sort of Ulysses--seen men and cities, you know.
In fact, about the only place I never got to was the Fortunate Island.'

I began to like this man. He answered your questions briefly and to the
point, and never tried to be funny. I felt I could be confidential with
him.

'Wouldn'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 there wouldn't be any
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. O, 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.

'O, just another fellow wh