“Say,” exclaimed that individual, “look where you’re going, will you?  You spoiled that plate.”

“I’ll spoil your camera if you annoy that young lady any longer,” said Carlton, in a low voice.

The photographer was rapidly rewinding his roll, and the fire of pursuit was still in his eye.

“She’s a Princess,” he explained, in an excited whisper.

“Well,” said Carlton, “even a Princess is entitled to some consideration.  Besides,” he said, in a more amicable tone, “you haven’t a permit to photograph on the Acropolis.  You know you haven’t.”  Carlton was quite sure of this, because there were no such permits.

The amateur looked up in some dismay.  “I didn’t know you had to have them,” he said.  “Where can I get one?”

“The King may give you one,” said Carlton.  “He lives at the palace.  If they catch you up here without a license, they will confiscate your camera and lock you up.  You had better vanish before they see you.”

“Thank you.  I will,” said the tourist, anxiously.

“Now,” thought Carlton, smiling pleasantly, “when he goes to the palace with that box and asks for a permit, they’ll think he is either a dynamiter or a crank, and before they are through with him his interest in photography will have sustained a severe shock.”

As Carlton turned from watching the rapid flight of the photographer, he observed that the Princess had remarked it also, as she had no doubt been a witness of what had passed, even if she had not overheard all that had been said.  She rose from her enforced position of refuge with a look of relief, and came directly towards Carlton along the rough path that led through the debris on the top of the Acropolis.  Carlton had thought, as he watched her sitting on the wall, with her chin resting on her hand, that she would make a beautiful companion picture to the one he had wished to paint of Miss Morris—­the one girl standing upright, looking fearlessly out to sea, on the top of the low wall, with the wind blowing her skirts about her, and her hair tumbled in the breeze, and the other seated, bending intently forward, as though watching for the return of a long-delayed vessel; a beautifully sad face, fine and delicate and noble, the face of a girl on the figure of a woman.  And when she rose he made no effort to move away, or, indeed, to pretend not to have seen her, but stood looking at her as though he had the right to do so, and as though she must know he had that right.  As she came towards him the Princess Aline did not stop, nor even shorten her steps; but as she passed opposite to him she bowed her thanks with a sweet impersonal smile and a dropping of the eyes, and continued steadily on her way.

Carlton stood for some short time looking after her, with his hat still at his side.  She seemed farther from him at that moment than she had ever been before, although she had for the first time recognized him.  But he knew that it was only as a human being that she had recognized him.  He put on his hat, and sat down on a rock with his elbows on his knees, and filled his pipe.