Who had lived in those blackened fire-swept houses, and walked in those grass-grown streets?
It was difficult to imagine the busy thronging crowds that once must have peopled all these silent haunts, where the only signs of life were the little green lizards that darted over the crumbling walls.
Certain of the best houses were railed round and kept carefully locked, and inside these could be seen what was left of the domestic life of civilized Pompeii.

The girls enjoyed looking at the rooms in the Casa Dei Vettii, with the exquisite paintings of cupids still left upon the scarlet walls, they laughed at the quaint mosaic of the chained dog with its warning _Cave Canem_ (Beware of the dog!), and they went into ecstasies over the lovely little statue of the Dancing Faun and some terracottas of Venus and Mercury.

One link with the past was left in the fact that a few of the houses still preserved the names and even the portrait-busts of their former owners.
"My! Doesn't he look boss of the place still?
I wonder if I ought to leave my visiting card for him," declared Delia, staring at the green marble representation of Cecilius Giscondis, a banker by profession.
The others laughed.

They had all been feeling rather oppressed, and were glad to break the ice.
"I'm so tired, I should think we must have walked miles," groaned Lorna.
"And I'm on the point of famishing," protested Irene, slapping her lunch-bag with a resounding smack.
Miss Morley turned round at the sound, and possibly caught the remark, for she spoke hastily to the guide, then suggested that the girls should sit in a row on a fallen column and consume their provisions.
"You all need a rest and something to eat now.

Then we'll go on with our sightseeing, and have tea at the restaurant when we've finished," she decreed.
Never were ham sandwiches and oranges so acceptable.