almost rustic simplicity and intimacy, the absolutely unpretentious
brightness and homely cheerfulness of the small capital of this unique
land had surprised, had almost confused her.

"Is this really Athens?" she had said, wondering, as they had driven
into what seemed a village set in bright bareness, sparsely shaded here
and there by small pepper-trees.

And the question had persisted in her mind, had almost trembled upon
her lips, for two or three days. But then had come a mysterious change,
brought about, perhaps, by affection. Quickly she had learnt to love
Athens, and then she had the feeling that if it had been in any way
different from what it was she could not have loved it. Its very
smallness delighted her, and she would not permit its faults to be
mentioned in her presence. Once, when Dion said that it was a great pity
the Athenians did not plant more trees, and a greater pity they so often
lopped off branches from the few trees they had, she exclaimed:

"You mustn't run down my Athens. It likes to give itself to the sun
generously. It's grateful, as it well may be, for all the sun has done
for it. Look at the color of that marble."

And Dion looked at the honey color, and the wonderful reddish-gold, and,
laughing, said:

"Athens is the one faultless city, and the dogs tell us so every night
and all night long."

"Dogs always bark when the moon is up," she answered, with a
semi-humorous gravity.