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           AndthatwouldpleaseHisGracediContini-Verchese,forhedidn’twanttolosecontactwithHisLordshipdeBricassart.

           Itwasveryhot,butBishopRalphdidn’tmindthedryAthensairafterSydney’shumidity.Walkingrapidly,asusualinboots,breechesandsoutane,hestrodeuptherockyramptotheAcropolis,throughthefrowningPropylon,pasttheErechtheum,onuptheinclinewithitsslipperyroughstonestotheParthenon,anddowntothewallbeyond.

           There,withthewindrufflinghisdarkcurls,alittlegreyabouttheearsnow,hestoodandlookedacrossthewhitecitytothebrighthillsandtheclear,astonishingaquamarineoftheAegeanSea.RightbelowhimwasthePlakawithitsrooftopcafés,itscoloniesofBohemians,andtoonesideagreattheaterlappeduptherock.InthedistancewereRomancolumns,CrusaderfortsandVenetiancastles,butneverasignoftheTurks.Whatamazingpeople,theseGreeks.Tohatetheracewhohadruledthemforsevenhundredyearssomuchthatoncefreedtheyhadn’tleftamosqueoraminaretstanding.Andsoancient,sofullofrichheritage.HisNormanshadbeenfur-cladbarbarianswhenPericlesclothedthetopoftherockinmarble,andRomehadbeenarudevillage.

           Onlynow,eleventhousandmilesaway,washeabletothinkofMeggiewithoutwantingtoweep.Evenso,thedistanthillsblurredforamomentbeforehebroughthisemotionsundercontrol.