"The English consul," replied his countryman; "you ought to know
him."

"The whole affair now is wanting to my eye," said a young,
sentimental artist.

"And what does it want, pray, Mister Critic?" asked the Englishman.

"A woman."

"Egad, that's true! There should be a woman in the picture, if it
was to be painted, if only to introduce color."

"Don't be so mercenary," added the other.

And the group thus idly conversing lounged on their way to dine. But
see, one of their number still lingers near the base of the shaft,
apparently absorbed in admiring its beautiful proportions; his pale
but fine intellectual features overspread by a spirit of admiration
as he beholds the column. But still there is some other motive than
mere curiosity that engages him thus; he seems to have thus
designedly dropped the company of the party he was just with. Now
suddenly turning and satisfying himself that his late companions
were out of sight, the young artist-for so his appearance evidently
bespoke him-slowly and sadly retraced his steps toward the grand
gallery.

The expression of his countenance was that of suffering and physical
pain, as well as of mental inquietude; but his late companions had