in the coast line, revealing a field, reminded him how Proserpine, while gathering flowers on the plains of Enna with her maidens, had been raped into the shadows by the dark god.  And looking on these waves, he remembered that it was over them that Jupiter in the form of a bull, a garlanded bull with crested horns, had sped, bearing Europa away for his pleasure.  Venus had been washed up by these waves!  Poseidon!  Sirens and Tritons had disported themselves in this sea, the bluest and the beautifullest, the one sea that mattered, more important than all the oceans; the oceans might dry up to-morrow for all he cared so long as this sea remained; and with the story of Theseus and “lonely Ariadne on the wharf at Naxos” ringing in his ears he looked to the north-east, whither lay the Cyclades and Propontis.  Medea, too, had been deserted—­“Medea deadlier than the sea.”  Helen!  All the stories of the “Iliad” and the “Odyssey” had been lived about these seas, from the coasts of Sicily to those of Asia Minor, whence AEneas had made his way to Carthage.  Dido, she, too, had been deserted.  All the great love stories of the world had been lived about these shores and islands; his own story!  And he mused for a long time on the accident—­if it were an accident—­which had led him back to this sea.  Or had he returned to these shores and islands merely because there was no other sea in which one could yacht?  Hardly, and he remembered with pleasure that his story differed from the ancient stories only in this, that Evelyn had fled from him, not be from her.  And for such a woeful reason!  That she might repent her sins in a convent on the edge of Wimbledon Common, whereas Dido was deserted for—­

Again his infernal skipper hanging about.  This time he had come with news that the Medusa was running short of provisions.  Would Sir Owen prefer that they should put in at Palermo or Tunis?

“Tunis, Tunis.”

The steerman put down the helm, and the fore and aft sails went over.  Three days later the Medusa dropped her anchor in the Bay of Tunis, and his skipper was again asking Owen for orders.

“Just take her round to Alexandria and wait for me there,” he answered, feeling he would not be free from England till she was gone.  It was his wish to get away from civilisation for a while, to hear Arabic, to learn it if he could, to wear a bournous, to ride Arab horses, live in a tent, to disappear in the desert, yes, and to be remembered as the last lover of the Mediterranean—­that would be une belle fin de vie, apres tout.

Then he laughed at his dreams, but they amused him; he liked to look upon his story as one of the love stories of the world.  Rome had robbed Dido of her lover and him of his mistress.  So far as he could see, the better story was the last, and his thoughts turned willingly to the Virgil who would arise centuries hence to tell it.  One thing, however, puzzled him.  Would the subject-matter