Betty Harris looked at him and smiled. She had been so carefully brought
up that she had not learned that some people were her inferiors and must
not be smiled at. She gave him the straight, sweet smile that those who
had cared for her all her life loved so well. Then she gave a little
nod. "I'm walking home," she said.

Achilles leaned forward a little, almost holding his breath lest she
float from him. It was the very spirit of Athens--democratic, cultured,
naive. He gave her the salute of his country. She smiled again. Then her
eye fell on the tray of pomegranates near the edge of the stall--round
and pink. She reached out a hand. "I have never seen these," she said,
slowly. "What are they?"

"Pomegranates--Yes--you like some? I give you."

He disappeared into the shop and Betty followed him, looking about with
clear, interested eyes. It was like no place she had ever seen--this
cool, dark room, with its tiers on tiers of fruit, and the fragrant,
spicy smell, and the man with the sad, kind face. Her quick eye
paused--arrested by the word printed on a box on the shelf to the
right.... Ah, that was it! She knew now quite well. He was a Greek man.
She knew the letters; She had studied Greek for six months; but she did
not know this word. She was still spelling it out when Achilles returned
with the small box of pomegranates in his hand.

She looked up slowly. "I can't quite make it out," she said.

"That?" Achilles's face was alight. "That is Greek."