Agias paused.  There was a silence, then a giggle behind the door, and it half opened, and out peered the plump and rosy face of the young girl we have heard Pratinas salute as his niece, Artemisia.  The moment she caught sight of the rather manly form of Agias, the door started to close with a slam, but the latter thrust out his foot, blocked the door, and forced an entrance.

“Eleleu!” cried Agias, pushing into a small but neatly furnished room.  “What have we here?  Do the muses sing in Subura?  Has Sappho brought hither her college of poetesses from Lesbos?”

“Ai!” exclaimed Artemisia, drawing back, “who are you?  You’re dreadfully rude.  I never saw you before.”

“Nor I you;” replied Agias, in capital good humour, “but that is no reason why I should take my eyes away from your pretty little face.  No, you needn’t point your middle finger at me so, to ward off the evil eye.  I’m neither Chaldean astrologer, nor Etruscan soothsayer.  Come, tell me who you are, and whom you belong to?”

Artemisia did not have the least idea what to say.  Agias, partly through youthful love of adventure, partly because he felt that he was playing now for very high stakes and must risk a good deal, had thrown himself on the divan, and was holding Artemisia captive under his keen, genial eyes.  She grew redder in face than before, began to speak, then broke off with more confused blushes.

“She means to say,” finally ventured Sesostris, “that she is Artemisia, the niece of Pratinas.”

“The niece of Pratinas!” exclaimed Agias, settling himself upon the cushions in a manner that indicated his intention to make a prolonged stay; “and does Pratinas keep his pretty niece shut up in a gloomy tenement, when she has the voice of one of the Graces, and more than their share of beauty!  Shame on him; I thought he had better sense than that!”

“Sir,” ventured Artemisia, trying desperately to stand on her dignity, “I do not know you.  My uncle will be greatly vexed to find you here.  Will you go away at once?”

“That I will not,” replied Agias, firmly; and he drew from the hamper a baker’s bun, and began to munch it, as though laying in provision for a lengthy stay.

Artemisia and Sesostris exchanged glances of dismay.

“What shall I do?” said the girl to the Ethiop in a very audible whisper.

“Sing,” interrupted Agias.  “Let me hear the rest of the Theocritus.”

“I don’t like to sing those songs,” objected Artemisia.  “Pratinas makes me, I don’t know why.”

“Well,” said Agias, smiling, “I wouldn’t for the-world make you sing against your will.  Suppose you tell me about yourself.  Tell me when your uncle is away, and when I may come and see you again.”

“He’s away nearly all the time,” said Artemisia, very incautiously.  “But who are you?  Why do you want to come and see me?”

“Why do I want to look at a flower?  Why do I want to hear the nightingale sing?  Why do I like a cup of good wine?” laughed Agias.  “Then, fair mistress, you may look for my answer when you have answered all of these questions of mine.”