On a lovely spring day I climbed the Mouseion hill in Athens, all among the olive trees, to see the celestial view of the Parthenon from its summit. The morning smelt delectably of pines, flowers and dust, and my mind was full of Hellenic glories. Halfway up a Greek sprang from the bushes, opened his macintosh wide and revealed to me his manly equipment. Well, I supposed, why not? Greek art had been displaying masculine glories for a few thousand years, and for that matter the sentries outside the royal palace, down in the city, were something of a disappointment to one of romantic fancy.