“But Klea,” interrupted Publius thoughtfully, “is grave and prudent; and the light tone which you are so ready to adopt will be very little to her taste, Consider that, and dare the attempt—­no, you dare not deceive her.  Tell her the whole truth, out of Irene’s hearing, with the gravity the matter deserves, and she will not hinder her sister when she knows how great and how imminent is the danger that threatens her.”

“Good!” said the Corinthian.  “I will be so solemnly earnest that the most wrinkled and furrowed graybeard among the censors of your native city shall seem a Dionysiac dancer compared with me.  I will speak like your Cato when he so bitterly complained that the epicures of Rome paid more now for a barrel of fresh herrings than for a yoke of oxen.  You shall be perfectly satisfied with me!—­But whither am I to conduct Irene?  I might perhaps make use of one of the king’s chariots which are passing now by dozens to carry the guests home.”

“I also had thought of that,” replied Publius.  “Go with the chief of the Diadoches, whose splendid house was shown to us yesterday.  It is on the way to the Serapeum, and just now at the feast you were talking with him incessantly.  When there, indemnify the driver by the gift of a gold piece, so that he may not betray us, and do not return here but proceed to the harbor.  I will await you near the little temple of Isis with our travelling chariot and my own horses, will receive Irene, and conduct her to some new refuge while you drive back Fuergetes’ chariot, and restore it to the driver.”

“That will not satisfy me by any means,” said Lysias very gravely; “I was ready to give up my pomegranate-flower to you yesterday for Irene, but herself—­”

“I want nothing of her,” exclaimed Publius annoyed.  “But you might—­it seems to me—­be rather more zealous in helping me to preserve her from the misfortune which threatens her through your own blunder.  We cannot bring her here, but I think that I have thought of a safe hiding-place for her.

“Do you remember Apollodorus, the sculptor, to whom we were recommended by my father, and his kind and friendly wife who set before us that capital Chios wine?  The man owes me a service, for my father commissioned him and his assistants to execute the mosaic pavement in the new arcade he was having built in the capitol; and subsequently, when the envy of rival artists threatened his life, my father saved him.  You yourself heard him say that he and his were all at my disposal.”

“Certainly, certainly,” said Lysias.  “But say, does it not strike you as most extraordinary that artists, the very men, that is to say, who beyond all others devote themselves to ideal aims and efforts, are particularly ready to yield to the basest impulses; envy, detraction, and—­”