The sweet child had quite bewitched him; in his younger days he would have given anything and everything to win her favor; now he was satisfied to make his favor pleasing to her; he touched her playfully two or three times on the arm and said gaily: 

“Well pretty Roxana, has dame Julia done well with the dresses?”

“Oh! they have chosen such pretty, such really lovely things!” exclaimed the girl.”

“Have they?” said Plutarch, to conceal by speech the fact that he was meditating on some subject; “Have they? and why should they not?”

Arsinoe’s washed dress had caught the old man’s eye, and remembering that Gabinius the curiosity-dealer had that very morning been to him to enquire whether Arsinoe were not in fact one of his work-girls, and to repeat his statement that her father was a beggarly toady, full of haughty airs, whose curiosities, of which he contemptuously mentioned a few, were worth nothing, Plutarch was hastily asking himself how he could best defend his pretty protege against the envious tongues of her rivals; for many spiteful speeches of theirs had already come to his ears.

“Whatever the noble Julia undertakes is always admirably done,” he said aloud, and he added in a whisper:  “The day after to-morrow when the goldsmiths have opened their workshops again, I will see what I can find for you.  I am falling in a heap, hold me up higher Antaeus and Atlas.  So.—­Yes, my child you look even better from up here than from a lower level.  Is the stout man standing behind you your father?”

“Yes.”

“Have you no mother?”

“She is dead.”

“Oh!” said Plutarch in a tone of regret.  Then turning to the steward he said: 

“Accept my congratulations on having such a daughter Keraunus.  I hear too that you have to supply a mother’s place to her.”

“Alas sir! she is very like my poor wife, since her death I live a joyless life.”

“But I hear that you take pleasure in collecting rare and beautiful objects.  This is a taste we have in common.  Are you inclined to part with the cup that belonged to my namesake Plutarch?  It must be a fine piece of work from what Gabinius tells me.”

“That it is,” replied the steward proudly.  “It was a gift to the philosopher from Trajan; beautifully carved in ivory.  I cannot bear to part with such a gem but,” and as he spoke he lowered his voice.  “I am under obligations to you, you have taken charge of my daughter’s outfit and to offer you some return I will—­”

“That is quite out of the question,” interrupted Plutarch, who knew men, and who saw from the steward’s pompous pretentiousness that the dealer had done him no injustice in describing him as overbearing.  “You are doing me an honor by allowing me to contribute what I can towards decorating our Roxana.  I beg you to send me the cup, and whatever price you put upon it, I, of course, shall pay, that is quite understood.”