When Eulaeus and the guide had reached the green grove, Irene hoped to find an opportunity to prefer her petition, but the Roman had stopped in front of the old man’s cell, and had begun a conversation with him which she could not venture to interrupt.  She set down the platter with the bread and dates that had been entrusted to her on a projecting stone by her side with a little sigh, crossed her arms and feet as she leaned against the wall, and pricked up her ears to hear their talk.

“I am not a Greek,” said the youth, “and you are quite mistaken in thinking that I came to Egypt and to see you out of mere curiosity.”

“But those who come only to pray in the temple,” interrupted the other, “do not—­as it seems to me—­choose an Eulaeus for a companion, or any such couple as those now waiting for you under the acacias, and invoking anything rather than blessings on your head; at any rate, for my own part, even if I were a thief I would not go stealing in their company.  What then brought you to Serapis?”

“It is my turn now to accuse you of curiosity!”

“By all means,” cried the old man, “I am an honest dealer and quite willing to take back the coin I am ready to pay away.  Have you come to have a dream interpreted, or to sleep in the temple yonder and have a face revealed to you?”

“Do I look so sleepy,” said the Roman, “as to want to go to bed again now, only an hour after sunrise?”

“It may be,” said the recluse, “that you have not yet fairly come to the end of yesterday, and that at the fag-end of some revelry it occurred to you that you might visit us and sleep away your headache at Serapis.”

“A good deal of what goes on outside these walls seems to come to your ears,” retorted the Roman, “and if I were to meet you in the street I should take you for a ship’s captain or a master-builder who had to manage a number of unruly workmen.  According to what I heard of you and those like you in Athens and elsewhere, I expected to find you something quite different.”

“What did you expect?” said Serapion laughing.  “I ask you notwithstanding the risk of being again considered curious.”

“And I am very willing to answer,” retorted the other, “but if I were to tell you the whole truth I should run into imminent danger of being sent off as ignominiously as my unfortunate guide there.”

“Speak on,” said the old man, “I keep different garments for different men, and the worst are not for those who treat me to that rare dish—­a little truth.  But before you serve me up so bitter a meal tell me, what is your name?”

“Shall I call the guide?” said the Roman with an ironical laugh.  “He can describe me completely, and give you the whole history of my family.  But, joking apart, my name is Publius.”

“The name of at least one out of every three of your countrymen.”

“I am of the Cornelia gens and of the family of the Scipios,” continued the youth in a low voice, as though he would rather avoid boasting of his illustrious name.