This was the last argument which completely subdued the priest.  It was necessary to him, as to all, to believe in something; and undivided and, at last, unreluctant, he surrendered himself to that belief which Arbaces inculcated, and which all that was human in passion—­all that was flattering in vanity—­all that was alluring in pleasure, served to invite to, and contributed to confirm.

This conquest, thus easily made, the Egyptian could now give himself wholly up to the pursuit of a far dearer and mightier object; and he hailed, in his success with the brother, an omen of his triumph over the sister.

He had seen Ione on the day following the revel we have witnessed; and which was also the day after he had poisoned her mind against his rival.  The next day, and the next, he saw her also:  and each time he laid himself out with consummate art, partly to confirm her impression against Glaucus, and principally to prepare her for the impressions he desired her to receive.  The proud Ione took care to conceal the anguish she endured; and the pride of woman has an hypocrisy which can deceive the most penetrating, and shame the most astute.  But Arbaces was no less cautious not to recur to a subject which he felt it was most politic to treat as of the lightest importance.  He knew that by dwelling much upon the fault of a rival, you only give him dignity in the eyes of your mistress:  the wisest plan is, neither loudly to hate, nor bitterly to contemn; the wisest plan is to lower him by an indifference of tone, as if you could not dream that he could be loved.  Your safety is in concealing the wound to your own pride, and imperceptibly alarming that of the umpire, whose voice is fate!  Such, in all times, will be the policy of one who knows the science of the sex—­it was now the Egyptian’s.

He recurred no more, then, to the presumption of Glaucus; he mentioned his name, but not more often than that of Clodius or of Lepidus.  He affected to class them together as things of a low and ephemeral species; as things wanting nothing of the butterfly, save its innocence and its grace.  Sometimes he slightly alluded to some invented debauch, in which he declared them companions; sometimes he adverted to them as the antipodes of those lofty and spiritual natures, to whose order that of Ione belonged.  Blinded alike by the pride of Ione, and, perhaps, by his own, he dreamed not that she already loved; but he dreaded lest she might have formed for Glaucus the first fluttering prepossessions that lead to love.  And, secretly, he ground his teeth in rage and jealousy, when he reflected on the youth, the fascinations, and the brilliancy of that formidable rival whom he pretended to undervalue.

It was on the fourth day from the date of the close of the previous book, that Arbaces and Ione sat together.

‘You wear your veil at home,’ said the Egyptian; ’that is not fair to those whom you honour with your friendship.’