‘The witches’ country.’

’True:  but for my part I find every woman a witch; and at Pompeii, by Venus! the very air seems to have taken a love-philtre, so handsome does every face without a beard seem in my eyes.’

’And lo! one of the handsomest in Pompeii, old Diomed’s daughter, the rich Julia!’ said Clodius, as a young lady, her face covered by her veil, and attended by two female slaves, approached them, in her way to the baths.

‘Fair Julia, we salute thee!’ said Clodius.

Julia partly raised her veil, so as with some coquetry to display a bold Roman profile, a full dark bright eye, and a cheek over whose natural olive art shed a fairer and softer rose.

‘And Glaucus, too, is returned!’ said she, glancing meaningly at the Athenian.  ‘Has he forgotten,’ she added, in a half-whisper, ’his friends of the last year?’

’Beautiful Julia! even Lethe itself, if it disappear in one part of the earth, rises again in another.  Jupiter does not allow us ever to forget for more than a moment:  but Venus, more harsh still, vouchsafes not even a moment’s oblivion.’

‘Glaucus is never at a loss for fair words.’

‘Who is, when the object of them is so fair?’

‘We shall see you both at my father’s villa soon,’ said Julia, turning to Clodius.

‘We will mark the day in which we visit you with a white stone,’ answered the gamester.

Julia dropped her veil, but slowly, so that her last glance rested on the Athenian with affected timidity and real boldness; the glance bespoke tenderness and reproach.

The friends passed on.

‘Julia is certainly handsome,’ said Glaucus.

‘And last year you would have made that confession in a warmer tone.’

’True; I was dazzled at the first sight, and mistook for a gem that which was but an artful imitation.’

‘Nay,’ returned Clodius, ’all women are the same at heart.  Happy he who weds a handsome face and a large dower.  What more can he desire?’

Glaucus sighed.

They were now in a street less crowded than the rest, at the end of which they beheld that broad and most lovely sea, which upon those delicious coasts seems to have renounced its prerogative of terror—­so soft are the crisping winds that hover around its bosom, so glowing and so various are the hues which it takes from the rosy clouds, so fragrant are the perfumes which the breezes from the land scatter over its depths.  From such a sea might you well believe that Aphrodite rose to take the empire of the earth.

‘It is still early for the bath,’ said the Greek, who was the creature of every poetical impulse; ’let us wander from the crowded city, and look upon the sea while the noon yet laughs along its billows.’

‘With all my heart,’ said Clodius; ’and the bay, too, is always the most animated part of the city.’