“You owe us quite a balance, but I'm inclined to call it a bargain,” I
said. “Only be kind to that hat and coat; they are old friends of mine.
I don't care so much about the two hundred dollars.”
“Thanks,” he answered with a laugh, and went on: “I've given you proper
credit on the books. You'll hear from me as soon as I am on my feet.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
He answered: “Ever since I was a kid I've wanted to see the Colosseum
where men fought with lions.”
“I am sure that you would enjoy a look at Hadrian's Walk,” I said,
pointing to the tourists who had halted there as I turned away.
So we parted, and with a sense of good luck I hurried to Norris.
“I've got a crick in my back,” I said. “Let's get out of here.”
We proceeded to our motor-car at the entrance.
“This ruin is the most infamous relic in the world,” said Norris, as
we got into our car; “it stands for the grandeur of pagan hoggishness.
Think of a man who wanted all the treasures and poets and musicians
and beauties in the world for the exclusive enjoyment of himself and
friends. Millions of men gave their lives for the creation of this
sublime swine-yard. Hadrian's Villa, and others like it, broke the back
of the empire. I tell you, the world has changed, and chiefly in its
sense of responsibility for riches. Here in Italy you still find the old
feudal, hog theory of riches, which is a thing of the past in America
and which is passing in England. We have a liking for service. I tell
you, Potter, my daughter ought to marry an American who is strong in the
modem impulses, and go on with my work.”