It was the praetor—­and yet it was not!  Verus, under this aspect at any rate, she had never seen till now.  Where was the smile that was wont to twinkle in his merry eye like the sparkle of a diamond and to play saucily about his lips—­where the unwrinkled serenity of his brow and the defiantly audacious demeanor of his whole handsome person?  He was slowly striding up and down with a gloomy fire in his eye, a deeply-lined brow, and his head sunk on his breast:  and yet it was not bowed with sorrow.  If so, could he have snapped his fingers in the air as he did just as he passed in front of Balbilla, as much as to say:  “Come what may! to-day I live and laugh the future in the face!”

But this vestige of his old reckless audacity did not last longer than the time it took to part his fingers again, and the next time Verus passed Balbilla he looked, if possible, more gloomy than before.  Something very unpleasant must have arisen to spoil the good humor of her friend’s husband; and the poetess was sincerely sorry; for, though she herself had daily to suffer under the praetor’s impertinence, she always forgave it for the sake of the graceful form in which he knew how to clothe his incivilities.

Balbilla longed to see Verus content once more, and she therefore came forth from her hiding place.  As soon as he saw her he altered the expression of his features and cried out as brightly as ever: 

“Welcome, fairest of the fair!”

She made believe not to recognize him, but, as she passed him and bowed her curly head, she said gravely and in deep tones: 

“Good day to you, Timon.”

“Timon?” he asked, taking her hand.

“Ah! is it you, Verus?” she answered, as though surprised.  “I thought the Athenian misanthrope had quitted Hades and come to take the air in this garden.”

“You thought rightly,” replied the praetor.  “But when Orpheus sings the trees dance, the Muse can turn dull, motionless stones into a Bacchante, and when Balbilla appears Timon is at once transformed into the happy Verus.”

“The miracle does not astonish me,” laughed the girl.  “But is it permitted to ask what dark spirit so effectually produced the contrary result, and made a Timon of the fair Lucilla’s happy husband?”

“I ought rather to beware of letting you see the monster, or our joyous muse Balbilla might easily become the sinister Hecate.  But the malicious sprite is close at hand, for he is hidden in this little roll.”

“A document from Caesar?”

“Oh! no, only a letter from a Jew.”

“Possibly the father of some fair daughter!”

“Wrongly guessed—­as wrong as possible!”

“You excite my curiosity.”

“Mine has already been satisfied by this roll.  Horace is wise when he says that man should never trouble himself about the future.”

“An oracle!”

“Something of the kind.”