“Tell me, Clodius,” said the Athenian at last, “hast thou ever been in love?”

“Yes, very often.”

“He who has loved often,” answered Glaucus, “has loved never.”

“Art thou, then, soberly and earnestly in love?  Hast thou that feeling which the poets describe—­a feeling which makes us neglect our suppers, forswear the theatre, and write elegies?  I should never have thought it.  You dissemble well.”

“I am not far gone enough for that,” returned Glaucus, smiling.  “In fact, I am not in love; but I could be if there but be occasion to see the object.”

“Shall I guess the object?  Is it not Diomed’s daughter?  She adores you, and does not affect to conceal it.  She is both handsome and rich.  She will bind the door-post of her husband with golden fillets.”

“No, I do not desire to sell myself.  Diomed’s daughter is handsome, I grant; and at one time, had she not been the grandchild of a freedman, I might have—­yet, no—­she carries all her beauty in her face; her manners are not maiden-like, and her mind knows no culture save that of pleasure.”

“You are ungrateful.  Tell me, then, who is the fortunate virgin.”

“You shall hear, my Clodius.  Several months ago I was sojourning at Naples, a city utterly to my own heart.  One day I entered the temple of Minerva to offer up my prayers, not for myself more than for the city on which Pallas smiles no longer.  The temple was empty and deserted.  The recollections of Athens crowded fast and meltingly upon me.  Imagining myself still alone, my prayer gushed from my heart to my lips, and I wept as I prayed.  I was startled in the midst of my devotions, however, by a deep sigh.  I turned suddenly, and just behind me was a female.  She had raised her veil also in prayer, and when our eyes met, methought a celestial ray shot from those dark and smiling orbs at once into my soul.

“Never, my Clodius, have I seen mortal face more exquisitely moulded.  A certain melancholy softened, and yet elevated, its expression.  Tears were rolling down her eyes.  I guessed at once that she was of Athenian lineage.  I spoke to her, though with a faltering voice.  ’Art thou not, too, Athenian?’ said I. At the sound of my voice she blushed, and half drew her veil across her face.  ‘My forefathers’ ashes,’ she said, ’repose by the waters of Ilyssus; my birth is of Naples; but my heart, as my lineage, is Athenian.’

“‘Let us, then,’ said I, ‘make our offerings together!’ And as the priest now appeared, we stood side by side, and so followed the ceremonial prayer.  Together we touched the knees of the goddess; together we laid our olive garlands on the altar.  Silently we left the temple, and I was about to ask her where she dwelt, when a youth, whose features resembled hers, took her by the hand.  She turned and bade me farewell, the crowd parted us, and I saw her no more; nor when I returned to Naples after a brief absence at Athens, was I able to discover any clue to my lost country-woman.  So, hoping to lose in gaiety all remembrance of that beautiful apparition, I hastened to plunge myself amidst the luxuries of Pompeii.  This is all my history, I do not love but I remember and regret.”