“I am quite inexperienced in such matters,” replied the Roman.

“And I much experienced,” answered Lysias.  “It might be, wait-it might be the clasp of her girdle in here.  Feel, it is certainly something hard.”

Publius carefully felt the packet that the Corinthian held out to him, with his fingers, and then said with a smile: 

“I can guess what you have there, and if I am right I shall be much pleased.  Irene, I believe, has returned you the gold bracelet on a little wooden tablet.”

“Nonsense!” answered Lysias.  “The ornament was prettily wrought and of some value, and every girl is fond of ornaments.”

“Your Corinthian friends are, at any rate.  But look what the wrapper contains.”

“Do you open it,” said the Corinthian.

Publius first untied a thread, then unfolded a small piece of white linen, and came at last to an object wrapped in a bit of flimsy, cheap papyrus.  When this last envelope was removed, the bracelet was in fact discovered, and under it lay a small wax tablet.

Lysias was by no means pleased with this discovery, and looked disconcerted and annoyed at the return of his gift; but he soon mastered his vexation, and said turning to his friend, who was not in the least maliciously triumphant, but who stood looking thoughtfully at the ground.

“Here is something on the little tablet—­the sauce no doubt to the peppered dish she has set before me.”

“Still, eat it,” interrupted Publius.  “It may do you good for the future.”

Lysias took the tablet in his hand, and after considering it carefully on both sides he said: 

“It belongs to the sculptor, for there is his name.  And there—­why she has actually spiced the sauce or, if you like it better the bitter dose, with verses.  They are written more clearly than beautifully, still they are of the learned sort.”

“Well?” asked the Roman with curiosity, as Lysias read the lines to himself; the Greek did not look up from the writing but sighed softly, and rubbing the side of his finely-cut nose with his finger he replied: 

“Very pretty, indeed, for any one to whom they are not directly addressed.  Would you like to hear the distich?”

“Read it to me, I beg of you.”

“Well then,” said the Corinthian, and sighing again he read aloud;

     ’Sweet is the lot of the couple whom love has united;
     But gold is a debt, and needs must at once be restored.’

“There, that is the dose.  But doves are not human creatures, and I know at once what my answer shall be.  Give me the fibula, Publius, that clasps that cloak in which you look like one of your own messengers.  I will write my answer on the wax.”

The Roman handed to Lysias the golden circlet armed with a strong pin, and while he stood holding his cloak together with his hands, as he was anxious to avoid recognition by the passers-by that frequented this street, the Corinthian wrote as follows: