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stones with which the room was lined. They were the work
of Athenian stone masons of the fourth and fifth centuries
before Christ, and they were very simple, work of no great
talent but with the exquisite spirit of Athens upon them;
time had mellowed the marble to the colour of honey, so
that unconsciously one thought of the bees of Hymettus,
and softened their outlines. Some represented a nude fig-
ure, seated on a bench, some the departure of the dead from
those who loved him, and some the dead clasping hands
with one who remained behind. On all was the tragic word
farewell; that and nothing more. Their simplicity was in-
finitely touching. Friend parted from friend, the son from
his mother, and the restraint made the survivor’s grief more
poignant. It was so long, long ago, and century upon cen-
tury had passed over that unhappiness; for two thousand
years those who wept had been dust as those they wept for.
Yet the woe was alive still, and it filled Philip’s heart so that
he felt compassion spring up in it, and he said:
‘Poor things, poor things.’
And it came to him that the gaping sight-seers and the
fat strangers with their guide-books, and all those mean,
common people who thronged the shop, with their trivial
desires and vulgar cares, were mortal and must die. They
too loved and must part from those they loved, the son from
his mother, the wife from her husband; and perhaps it was
more tragic because their lives were ugly and sordid, and
they knew nothing that gave beauty to the world. There
was one stone which was very beautiful, a bas relief of two
young men holding each other’s hand; and the reticence of

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