“No, there is not time for that now, for we must first, and at once, consider what can be done to repair the last mischief which you have done.  Is it not a disgraceful thing that you should betray the sweet creature whose childlike embarrassment charmed us this morning—­of whom you yourself said, as we came home, that she reminded you of your lovely sister—­that you should betray her, I say, into the power of the wildest of all the profligates I ever met—­to this monster, whose pleasures are the unspeakable, whose boast is vice?  What has Euergetes—­”

“By great Poseidon!” cried Lysias, eagerly interrupting his friend.  “I never once thought of this second Alcibiades when I mentioned her.  What can the manager of a performance do, but all in his power to secure the applause of the audience? and, by my honor! it was for my own sake that I wanted to bring Irene into the palace—­I am mad with love for her—­she has undone me.”

“Aye! like Callista, and Phryne, and the flute-player Stephanion,” interrupted the Roman, shrugging his shoulders.

“How should it be different?” asked the Corinthian, looking at his friend in astonishment.  “Eros has many arrows in his quiver; one strikes deeply, another less deeply; and I believe that the wound I have received to-day will ache for many a week if I have to give up this child, who is even more charming than the much-admired Hebe on our cistern.”

“I advise you however to accustom yourself to the idea, and the sooner the better,” said Publius gravely, as he set himself with his arms crossed, directly in front of the Greek.  “What would you feel inclined to do to me if I took a fancy to lure your pretty sister—­whom Irene, I repeat it, is said to resemble—­to tempt her with base cunning from your parents’ house?”

“I protest against any such comparison,” cried the Corinthian very positively, and more genuinely exasperated than the Roman had ever seen him.

“You are angry without cause,” replied Publius calmly and gravely.  “Your sister is a charming girl, the ornament of your illustrious house, and yet I dare compare the humble Irene—­”

“With her! do you mean to say?” Lysias shouted again.  “That is a poor return for the hospitality which was shown to you by my parents and of which you formally sang the praises.  I am a good-natured fellow and will submit to more from you than from any other man—­I know not why, myself;—­but in a matter like this I do not understand a joke!  My sister is the only daughter of the noblest and richest house in Corinth and has many suitors.  She is in no respect inferior to the child of your own parents, and I should like to know what you would say if I made so bold as to compare the proud Lucretia with this poor little thing, who carries water like a serving-maid.”

“Do so, by all means!” interrupted Publius coolly, “I do not take your rage amiss, for you do not know who these two sisters are, in the temple of Serapis.  Besides, they do not fill their jars for men but in the service of a god.  Here—­take this roll and read it through while I answer the despatch from Rome.  Here!  Spartacus, come and light a few more lamps.”