Later they talked like comrades and partners about the emerald, and decided that it must belong to someone in Pliny’s villa, either to Calpurnia herself or to one of her guests.  They agreed that they could not sleep until it was returned.  The mother had to stay near the sleeping old man, but the villa was only two miles away, the neighbourhood was safe, with a dog as companion, and Marcus was a fast walker on his strong bare feet.  At the villa he could ask for Lucius, who came to the farm twice a week for eggs and chickens.  “He is an old servant,” she said, “loyal to his master and friendly toward us.  He is sure to be kind to you.  I will do the jewel up in a little package and put father’s seal on it, and you can trust it to him.  Be sure to give it to no one else.”

So Marcus, with his dog, long past his usual bed-time, trudged forth into the night whose cavernous shadows deepened the shadows in his little heart.  The worst of the adventure was walking up through the grounds of the villa and facing the porter at the servants’ door and asking for Lucius.  When he came, the boy thrust the package into his hand, stammered out an explanation, and ran away before the bewildered old man knew what had happened.  On the way home the dog seemed to share his master’s discouragement and left unchallenged the evening music of the bull-frogs.  When Marcus stretched his tired legs out in bed he thought of to-morrow with the sheep again, and wondered dully why his Lady and her mysterious comrade in the pasture had cheated him.  His mother, going into the kitchen to see that the wood was ready for the morning, snatched the red roses from the table spread for Fors Fortuna and threw them fiercely on the ashes.

II

The day at the villa had been the most trying one of a trying week for Pliny and Calpurnia.  A restful house-party of their dearest friends had been spoiled by the arrival of Quadratilla, heralded by one of her incredible letters dated at Baiae: 

“I lost at the dice last night,” she had written.  “The dancers from Cadiz had thick ankles.  The oysters were not above suspicion and the sows’-bellies were unseasoned.  We have exhausted the love affairs and debts of our neighbours, and made each other’s wills. (I am to leave my money—­I rely on you to tell Quadratus—­to a curled darling here who hums Alexandrian dance tunes divinely).  And we have discussed ad nauseam the rainfall in Upper Egypt, the number of legions on the Rhine and the ships in from Africa.  That clever Spanish friend of yours—­what was his name?—­Martial—­was quite right about our conversations.  It is a pity he had to pay out his obol for the longer journey before he could get back to Rome.

“My digestion demands fresh eggs and lettuce to the rhythm of hexameters.  Or is it sapphics to which we eat this year?  I must know what the next crop of the stylus is to be.  I cannot sleep at night for wondering who is to teach in your new school.  Will he be as merry a guide as your Quintilian was?  And will the Como boys become sparkling little Plinies?