THE GOLDEN AGE
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
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