“To-morrow, to-morrow,” he cried; “nay, if necessary, to-day, after sunset.  But now I need rest.  Rest!  Rest!  Why, you yourselves can see the state I am in.”

All—­even the master-masons and purveyors who had come on urgent affairs, drew back; only one elderly man, his sister Paulina’s house-steward, caught hold of his chiton, stained as it was with smoke and scorched in many places, and said quickly and in a low tone: 

“My mistress greets you; she has things to speak of to you which will bear no delay; I am not to leave you till you have promised to go to see her to-day.  Our chariot waits for you at the garden-door.”

“Send it home,” said Pontius, not even civilly; “Paulina must wait a few hours.”

“But my orders are to take you with me at once.”

“But in this state—­so—­I cannot go with you,” cried the architect with vehemence.  “Have you no sort of consideration?  And yet—­who can tell—­ well, tell her I will be with her in two hours.”

When Pontius had fairly escaped the throng he took a bath; then he had some food brought to him, but even while he ate and drank, he was not unoccupied, for he read the letters which awaited him, and examined some drawings which his assistants had prepared during his absence.

“Give yourself an hour’s respite,” said the old housekeeper, who had been his nurse and who loved him as her own son.

“I must go to my sister,” he answered with a shrug.  “We know her of old,” said the old woman.  “For nothing, and less than nothing, she has sent for you be fore now; and you absolutely need rest.  There—­are your cushions right—­so?  And let me ask you, has the humblest stone-carrier so hard a life as you have?  Even at meals you never have an hour of peace and comfort.  Your poor head is never quiet; the nights are turned into day; something to do, always something to do.  If one only knew who it is all for?”

“Aye—­who for, indeed?” sighed Pontius, pushing his arm under his head, between it and the pillow.  “But, you see, little mother, work must follow rest as surely as day follows night or summer follows winter.  The man who has something he loves in the House—­a wife and merry children, it may be, for aught I care—­who sweeten his hours of rest and make them the best of all the day, he, I say is wise when he tries to prolong them; but his case is not mine—­”

“But why is it not yours, my son Pontius?”

“Let me finish my speech.  I, as you know full well, do not care for gossip in the bath nor for reclining long over a banquet.  In the pauses of my work I am alone, with myself and with you, my very worthy Leukippe.  So the hours of rest are not for me the fairest scenes, but empty waits between the acts of the drama of life; and no reasonable man can find fault with me for trying to abridge them by useful occupation.”

“And what is the upshot of this sensible talk?  Simply this:  you must get married.”