Street, but no one had yet asked him of the Parthenon. Sometimes he
thought that they did not know that he was Greek. Perhaps if they knew
that he had been in Athens, had lived there all his life from a boy,
they would question him. The day that he first thought of this, he had
ordered a new sign painted. It bore his name in Greek characters, and
it was beautiful in line and colour. It caused his stand to become known
far and wide as the "Greek Shop," and within a month after it was put up
his trade had doubled--but no one had asked about the Parthenon.

He had really ceased to hope for it now. He only dreamed the dream, a
little wistfully, as he went in and out, and his thought dwelt always on
Athens and her beauty. The images stamped so carefully on his sensitive
brain became his most precious treasures. Over and over he dwelt on
them. Ever in memory his feet climbed the steps to the Acropolis or
walked beneath stately orange-trees, beating a soft rhythm to the
sound of flute and viol. For Achilles was by nature one of the
lightest-hearted of children. In Athens his laugh had been quick to
rise, and fresh as the breath of rustling leaves. It was only here,
under the sooty sky of the narrow street, that his face had grown a
little sad.

At first the days had been full of hope, and the face of each newcomer
had been scanned with eager eyes. The fruit, sold so courteously and
freely, was hardly more than an excuse for the opening of swift talk.
But the talk had never come. There was the inevitable and never-varying,
"How much?" the passing of coin, and hurrying feet. Soon a chill had
crept into the heart of Achilles. They did not ask of Athens. They
did not know that he was Greek. They did not care that his name was
Achilles. They did not see him standing there with waiting eyes. He
might have been a banana on its stem, a fig-leaf against the wall,