Martialis folded his arms and watched them. The potter had unconsciously dealt a deathblow to his own cause, if it needed one at all. Their eyes met at that moment. The acute perception, or instinct, of the artisan interpreted too well the calm, resolute light of the young man’s glance, so warm with the picture of the fair girl before him, and he groaned inwardly as he restlessly stroked his daughter’s glossy locks. He knew not what to say, so heavily did the sense of his helplessness press upon him. ‘It is a year since I stopped one day at the old fountain‐basin yonder,’ said Martialis, stretching out his arm. ‘I had ridden far and was thirsty, and Neæra was filling her pitcher. It was thus I met her first. I went on my way, but her image haunted my mind. I sought her again, and discovered that her looks did not belie her heart. I have chosen her to fill my mind, even as you would have me choose; not from a light fancy of the eyes alone, but because I know she is pure, noble, and good in spirit. As for the rest, you may magnify, from ignorance, my position and importance. Neæra is naturally predisposed toward those trifling changes which you deem necessary, and she would glide into them instinctively and unconsciously. Masthlion, these arguments will be vain, so use them not. I ask you to give me your daughter Neæra, in betrothal.’ The potter did not reply straightway, but, smoothing the trembling girl’s head ceaselessly with his hand, he stood with his brow contracted in painful thought, and his eyes bent on the ground. ‘In good faith, Centurion,’ he said, after an uneasy silence, ‘you rend my heart between doubt and anxiety, and a desire to act generously as well as prudently. Can I deliver up my child to a stranger? Were you of this district I could judge better of you. You are honest and fair‐spoken, and your looks correspond to your speech. But yet you are no more than a stranger, and Surrentum knows you not.’ ‘I would fetch Rome, if I could, to aid you,’ said the young man. ‘You are pleased to be satisfied with my appearance; I, for my part, will await your further inquiries with confidence.’ ‘I have no suspicion of your character, noble sir, but prudence requires proof. I cannot give you a decided answer, for now we are at odds and evens. You are sanguine and confident of the future; I am not. Hawks should pair only with hawks, and sparrows with sparrows. More words at present, however, would be spent to no purpose—the matter requires time and reflection.’ ‘The child Neæra is not goods or chattels, husband—is she to have no word for herself?’ remarked his wife quietly. ‘Ay, truly, Tibia; thou hast ever a word in season,’ answered the potter to his delighted spouse. ‘The gods forgive me for a thoughtless blockhead. It would be a fine way of making a pot without first proving if the clay be fit. What say you, Neæra—do you love this young man?’