By the time the father and daughter reached the palace it was already tolerably late, for, after Arsinoe had quitted the stage, suitable representatives of parts had been selected for three other scenes from the life of Alexander, by the light of torches, lamps and tapers; and before the assemblage broke up, Plutarch’s guests were entertained with wine, fruit, syrups, sweet cakes, oyster pasties, and other delicacies.  The steward had fallen with good will on the noble drink and excellent food, and when he was replete, he was wont to be in a better humor, and after a modicum of wine, in a more cheerful mood than usual.  Just now he was content and kind, for although he had done all that lay in his power, the entertainment had not lasted long enough, for him to arrive at a state of intoxication which could make him surly, or to overload his digestion.  Towards the end of their walk, he turned thoughtful and said: 

“To-morrow the council does not sit on account of the festival, and that is well; all the world will congratulate me, question me, and notice me, and the gilding on my circlet is quite shabby; and in some places the silver shines through.  Your outfit will now cost nothing, and it is quite necessary that before the next meeting I should go to a goldsmith and exchange that wretched thing for one of real gold.  A man should show what he is.”

He spoke the words pompously, and Arsinoe eagerly acquiesced, and only begged him, as they went in at the open door, to leave enough for Selene’s costume; he laughed quietly to himself, and said: 

“We need no longer be so very cautious.  I should like to know who the Alexander will be who will be the first to ask for my Roxana as his wife.  Rich old Plutarch’s only son already has a seat in the council, and has not yet taken a wife.  He is no longer very young, but he is a fine man still.”

The radiant father’s dream of the future was interrupted by Doris, who came out of the gate-house and called him by his name.  Keraunus stood still.  When the old woman went on: 

“I must speak with you.”

He answered, repellently:  “But I shall not listen to you—­neither now nor at any time.”

“It was certainly not for my pleasure,” retorted Doris, “that I called to you; I have only to tell you that you will not find your daughter Selene at home.”

“What do you say?” cried Keraunus.

“I say that the poor girl with her damaged foot could at last walk no farther, and that she had to be carried into a strange house where she is being taken care of.”

“Selene!” cried Arsinoe, falling from all her clouds of happiness, startled and grieved—­“do you know where she is?”

Before Doris could reply, Keraunus stormed out: 

“It is all the fault of the Roman architect and his raging beast of a dog.  Very good! very good! now Caesar will certainly help me to my rights.  He will give a lesson to those who throw Roxana’s sister into a sick-bed, and hinder her from taking any part in the processions.  Very good! very good indeed!”