‘It’s the Ode to a Grecian Urn. That’s what made me think of
it—talking about urns.’
Walter grunted, and I realized that he did not know the Grecian
Urn, but I couldn’t say, ‘It’s by Keats.’
Mr. Furze interposed.
‘Sebright is quite incorrigible,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t like Grecian
Urns, and he doesn’t like poetry. He will certainly not read
a poem about a Grecian Urn.’
Walter shrugged his shoulders and gave a little laugh, and I
felt it had not mattered after all.
Soon after that Mr. Furze had to catch his train. I was sorry
when he went away.
There was a tensity in the air when we were alone, and I felt
somehow as though I were there on false pretences. Walter took
me to a big stone in a square frame.
‘This is the Rosetta Stone,’ he said. ‘I think this is one of
the most exciting things here.’
And he told me that there were three different languages on it,
and three different scripts, and that had been the key to discovering
a whole new civilization. People had worked out another language—Ancient
Egyptian, he said it was—letter by letter, sign by sign, through
comparing one side of the stone with the other, for the same
legend was written on all three.