“I repeat, he seemed to us gloomy rather than gay,” retorted Apollonius, with annoyance; and Pancrates added: 

“If he does really know how to jest he certainly did not prove it to us.”

“Not out of ill-will,” laughed the Gaul, “you do not know him, but I—­I am his friend and may follow wherever—­he goes.  Now only wait and I will tell you a few stories about him.  If I chose I could describe his whole soul to you as if it lay there on the surface of the wine in my cup.  Once in Rome he went to inspect the newly-decorated baths of Agrippa, and in the undressing-room he saw an old man, a veteran who had fought with him somewhere or other.  My memory is greatly admired, but his is in no respect inferior.  Scaurus was the old man’s name—­yes—­yes, Scaurus.  He did not observe Caesar at first, for after his bath his wounds were burning and he was rubbing his back against the rough stone of a pillar.  Hadrian however called to him:  ’Why are you scratching yourself, my friend?’ and Scaurus, not at once recognizing Caesar’s voice, answered without turning round:  ‘Because I have no slave to do it for me.’  You should have heard Caesar laugh!  Liberal as he is sometimes—­I say sometimes—­he gave Scaurus a handsome sum of money and two sturdy slaves.  The story soon got abroad, and when Caesar, who—­as you believe—­cannot jest, a short time after again visited the bath, two old soldiers at once placed themselves in his way, scrubbed their backs against the wall like Scaurus, and called out to him ’Great Caesar, we have no slaves.’—­’Then scratch each other,’ cried he, and left the soldiers to rub themselves.”

“Capital!” laughed Dionysius.  “Now one more true story,” interrupted the loquacious Gaul.  “Once upon a time a man with white hair begged of him.  The wretch was a low fellow, a parasite who wandered round from one man’s table to another, feeding himself out of other folks’ wallets and dishes.  Caesar knew his man and warned him off.  Then the creature had his hair dyed that he might not be recognized, and tried his luck a second time with the Emperor.  But Hadrian has good eyes; he pointed to the door, saying, with the gravest face:  ‘I have just lately refused to give your father anything.’  And a hundred such jokes pass from mouth to mouth in Rome, and if you like I can give you a dozen of the best.”

“Tell us, go on, out with your stories.  They are all old friends!” stammered Florus.  “But while Favorinus chatters we can drink.”

The Gaul cast a contemptuous glance at the Roman, and answered promptly: 

“My stories are too good for a drunken man.”

Florus paused to think of an answer, but before he could find one, the praetor’s body-slave rushed into the hall crying out:  “The palace at Lochias is on fire.”

Verus kicked the mat of lilies off his feet on to the floor, tore down the net that screened him in, and shouted to the breathless runner.