“Well, it is to be hoped she may not prove to be so wicked as you just now described her.—­If only our alliance is not fated to end soon and abruptly.”

“Ah!” cried the physician, “every drop of blood in my veins. . . .”

“You would be ready to shed it for me,” Paula broke in, with a pathetic gesture, borrowed from a great tragedian she had seen at the theatre in Damascus.  “But never fear:  it will not be a matter of life and death—­at worst they will but turn me out of the house and of Memphis.”

“You?” cried Philippus startled, “but who would dare to do so?”

“They who still regard me as a stranger.—­You described the case admirably.  If they have their way, my dear new friend, our fate will be like that of the learned Dionysius of Cyrene.”

“Of Cyrene?”

“Yes.  It was my father who told me the story.  When Dionysius sent his son to the High School at Athens, he sat down to write a treatise for him on all the things a student should do and avoid.  He devoted himself to the task with the utmost diligence; but when, at the end of four years, he could write on the last leaf of the roll.  ’Here this book hath a happy ending,’ the young man whose studies it was intended to guide came home to Cyrene, a finished scholar.”

“And we have struck up a friendship . . . ?”

“And made a treaty of alliance, only to be parted ere long.”

Philippus struck his fist vehemently on the little table in front of his couch and exclaimed:  “That I will find means to prevent!—­But now, tell me in confidence, what has last happened between you and the family down-stairs?”

“You will know quite soon enough.”

“Whichever of them fancies that you can be turned out of doors without more ado and there will be an end between us, may find himself mistaken!” cried the physician with an angry sparkle in his eyes.  “I have a right to put in a word in this house.  It has not nearly come to that yet, and what is more, it never shall.  You shall quit it certainly; but of your own free will, and holding your head high. . . .”

As he spoke the door of the outer room was hastily opened and the next instant Orion was standing before them, looking with great surprise at the pair who had just finished their meal.  He said coldly: 

“I am disturbing you, I see.”

“Not in the least,” replied the leech; and the young man, perceiving what bad taste it would be and how much out of place to give expression to his jealous annoyance, said, with a smile:  “If only it had been granted to a third person to join in this symposium!”

“We found each other all-sufficient company,” answered Philippus.

“A man who could believe in all the doctrines of the Church as readily as in that statement would be assured of salvation,” laughed Orion.  “I am no spoilsport, respected friends; but I deeply regret that I must, on the present occasion, disturb your happiness.  The matter in question. . . .”  And he felt he might now abandon the jesting tone which so little answered to his mood, “is a serious one.  In the first instance it concerns your freedman, my fair foe.”