stories who don't marry the Princess, 'cos only one man ever gets married in a book, you know. They'll be there!"
"And the men who fail," he said, "who try like the rest, and toil, and eat their hearts out, and somehow miss—or break down or get bowled over in the mêlée—and get no Princess, nor even a second-class kingdom—some of them'll be there, I hope?"
"Yes, if you like," I replied, not quite understanding him; "if they're friends of yours, we'll ask 'em, of course."
"What a time we shall have!" said the artist reflectively; "and how shocked old Marcus Aurelius will be!"
The shadows had lengthened uncannily, a tide of golden haze began to flood the grey-green surface of the downs, and the artist put his traps together, preparatory to a move. I felt very low: we would have to part, it seemed, just as we were getting on so well together. Then he stood up, and he was very straight and tall, and the sunset was in his hair and beard as he stood there, high over me. He took my hand like an equal. "I've enjoyed our conversation very much," he said. "That was an interesting subject you started, and we haven't half exhausted it. We shall meet again, I hope?"
"Of course we shall," I replied, surprised that there should be any doubt about it.
"In Rome perhaps?" said he.
"Yes, in Rome," I answered; "or Piccy-the-other-place, or somewhere."
"Or else," said he, "in that other city—when we've found the way there. And I'll look out for you, and you'll sing out as soon as you see me. And we'll go down the street arm-in-arm, and into all the shops, and then I'll choose my house, and you'll choose your house, and we'll live there like princes and good fellows."
