his garden and the view of the tessellated city from the vineyard on the
hill, the strange clamor of the tavern, and white Fotis appearing on the
torch-lit stage. And there were shops in the town in which he delighted,
the shops of the perfume makers, and jewelers, and dealers in curious
ware. He loved to see all things made for ladies' use, to touch the
gossamer silks that were to touch their bodies, to finger the beads of
amber and the gold chains which would stir above their hearts, to handle
the carved hairpins and brooches, to smell odors which were already
dedicated to love.

But though these were sweet and delicious gratifications, he knew that
there were more exquisite things of which he might be a spectator. He had
seen the folly of regarding fine literature from the standpoint of the
logical intellect, and he now began to question the wisdom of looking at
life as if it were a moral representation. Literature, he knew, could not
exist without some meaning, and considerations of right and wrong were to
a certain extent inseparable from the conception of life, but to insist
on ethics as the chief interest of the human pageant was surely absurd.
One might as well read _Lycidas_ for the sake of its denunciation of
"our corrupted Clergy," or Homer for "manners and customs." An artist
entranced by a beautiful landscape did not greatly concern himself with
the geological formation of the hills, nor did the lover of a wild sea
inquire as to the chemical analysis of the water. Lucian saw a colored
and complex life displayed before him, and he sat enraptured at the
spectacle, not concerned to know whether actions were good or bad, but
content if they were curious.

In this spirit he made a singular study of corruption. Beneath his feet,
as he sat in the garden porch, was a block of marble through which there
ran a scarlet stain. It began with a faint line, thin as a hair, and grew