Irene made no reply, but she stood taller on tiptoe than ever, put her face up to Serapion, nodding her pretty head at him again and again, and as she looked roguishly and yet imploringly into his eyes Serapion went on: 

“And so I am to give my breakfast to Klea, that is what you want; but unfortunately that breakfast is a thing of the past and beyond recall; nothing is left of it but the date-stones.  But there, on the trencher in your hand, is a nice little meal.”

“That is the offering to Serapis sent by old Phibis,” answered the girl.

“Hm, hm—­oh! of course!” muttered the old man.  “So long as it is for a god—­surely he might do without it better than a poor famishing girl.”

Then he went on, gravely and emphatically, as a teacher who has made an incautious speech before his pupils endeavors to rectify it by another of more solemn import.

“Certainly, things given into our charge should never be touched; besides, the gods first and man afterwards.  Now if only I knew what to do.  But, by the soul of my father!  Serapis himself sends us what we need.  Step close up to me, noble Scipio—­or Publius, if I may so call you—­and look out towards the acacias.  Do you see my favorite, your cicerone, and the bread and roast fowls that your slave has brought him in that leathern wallet?  And now he is setting a wine-jar on the carpet he has spread at the big feet of Eulaeus—­they will be calling you to share the meal in a minute, but I know of a pretty child who is very hungry—­for a little white cat stole away her breakfast this morning.  Bring me half a loaf and the wing of a fowl, and a few pomegranates if you like, or one of the peaches Eulaeus is so judiciously fingering.  Nay—­you may bring two of them, I have a use for both.”

“Serapion!” exclaimed Irene in mild reproof and looking down at the ground; but the Greek answered with prompt zeal, “More, much more than that I can bring you.  I hasten—­”

“Stay here,” interrupted Publius with decision, holding him back by the shoulder.  “Serapion’s request was addressed to me, and I prefer to do my friend’s pleasure in my own person.”

“Go then,” cried the Greek after Publius as he hurried away.  “You will not allow me even thanks from the sweetest lips in Memphis.  Only look, Serapion, what a hurry he is in.  And now poor Eulaeus has to get up; a hippopotamus might learn from him how to do so with due awkwardness.  Well!  I call that making short work of it—­a Roman never asks before he takes; he has got all he wants and Eulaeus looks after him like a cow whose calf has been stolen from her; to be sure I myself would rather eat peaches than see them carried away!  Oh if only the people in the Forum could see him now!  Publius Cornelius Scipio Nasica, own grandson to the great Africanus, serving like a slave at a feast with a dish in each hand!  Well Publius, what has Rome the all conquering brought home this time in token of victory?”