A strange look came over Julian's features, a look at once bright
and melancholy; his fine eyes gleamed as was their wont eight years
ago, in the back-parlour in Boston Street, when he was telling tales
from Plutarch.

"Not," he said, in a low voice charged with feeling, "since I was
three years old.--You will think it strange, but I don't so much
long for the modern Italy, for the beautiful scenery and climate,
not even for the Italy of Raphael, or of Dante. I think most of
classical Italy. I am no scholar, but I love the Latin writers, and
can forget myself for hours, working through Livy or Tacitus. I want
to see the ruins of Rome; I want to see the Tiber, the Clitumnus,
the Aufidus, the Alban Hills, Lake Trasimenus,--a thousand places!
It is strange how those old times have taken hold upon me. The mere
names in Roman history make my blood warm.--And there is so little
chance that I shall ever be able to go there; so little chance."

Waymark had watched the glowing face with some surprise.

"Why, this is famous!" he exclaimed. "We shall suit each other
splendidly. Who knows? We may see Italy together, and look back upon
these times of miserable struggle. By the by, have you ever written
verses?"

Julian reddened, like a girl.

"I have tried to," he said.

"And do still?"