that his heart yearned for no individual, but the whole sex—­at least the portion which was young and could feel love—­and therefore he would scarcely be wise to bind himself to any one.  True, he knew that he was capable of fidelity, for he clung to his friends with changeless loyalty, and was ready to make any sacrifice in their behalf.  With women, however, he dealt differently.  Was Helena’s image, which now floated before him so bewitchingly, destined to fade as swiftly?  The contrary would have been remarkable.  Yet he firmly believed that this time Eros meant honestly by him.  The laughing loves who twined their rose garlands around him and Helena’s predecessors had nothing to do with this grave maiden.

These reflections darted through his brain with the speed of lightning, and still stirred his heart when he was ushered into the impluvium, where the magistrates were impatiently awaiting the owner of the house.  With the lucidity peculiar to him, he explained his reasons for hoping that their errand would be vain, and Apollonius replied that no one would rejoice more than he himself if the Regent should authorize him, on the morrow, to countermand his mission.  He would gladly wait there longer to afford the old man’s granddaughter an opportunity to soften the tidings of the impending misfortune.

The kind-hearted man’s patience, however, was not tested too long; for when Helena entered the summer-house Didymus had already been informed of the disaster which threatened him and his family.  The philosopher Euphranor, an elderly member of the Museum, had reached him through the garden gate, and, spite of Philotas’s warning sign, told him what was occurring.  But Didymus knew the old philosopher, who, a recluse from the world like himself, was devoting the remainder of his life and strength to the pursuit of science.  So he only shook his head incredulously, pushed back the thin locks of grey hair which hung down on his cheeks over the barest part of his skull, and exclaimed reproachfully, though as if the matter under discussion was of the most trivial importance:  “What have you been hearing?  We’ll see about it!”

He had risen as he spoke, and too abruptly surprised by the news to remember the sandals on the mat and the upper robe which lay on a chest of drawers at the end of the room, he was in the act of quitting it, when his friend, who had silently watched his movements, stopped him, and Helena entered.

The grey-haired sage turned to her, and, vexed by his friend’s doubts, begged her to convince her grandfather that even matters which do not please us may nevertheless be of some importance.  She did so as considerately as possible, thinking meanwhile of the architect and his hopes.

Didymus, with his eyes bent on the ground, shook his grey head again and again.  Then, suddenly raising it, he rushed to the door, and without heeding the upper garment which Helena still held in her hand, tore it open, shouting, “But things must and shall be changed!”