‘What binds you to Surrentum? Come to Rome—there will be greater scope for your talents, and fortune will flow in upon you.’ ‘Ah, yes, father!’ cried Neæra eagerly, with delight in her eyes; ‘and then we shall be nigh—everything persuades you—you cannot say anything against it—you know you cannot!’ She caressed him, once more, in her soft, loving manner, which never failed to fill the heart of her lover with secret pleasure, but Masthlion put her off as gently as before. ‘The aging tree is not removed as easily as the young sapling,’ he said. ‘No! this is not a fate which befalls thy mother and myself alone: it follows all those who live long enough to see their bantlings grow out of childhood—others have to bear it, so must we. Go whither your duty calls you; your lives have to be moulded, ours are not so lightly altered. And when your husband weds you, child, you become of his station—we know better than to follow you, to your disparagement.’ ‘You do us little honour by that speech, Masthlion,’ said Martialis; ‘had I been of such a mean mind I would never have suggested what I have done.’ ‘You are both young, and cannot see as far as we older people,’ replied Masthlion. ‘I am glad of it, then, if it were to see such ignoble conduct. What say you, Neæra?’ The girl’s head was hanging on her breast in painful thought. ‘Could I be ashamed of my own parents?’ she said. The potter’s face clouded deep and he went away to the window, where he turned his back on the lovers, and looked into the garden in silent reflection. Martialis stepped to Neæra’s side, and so they remained without a word for some time. A struggle was proceeding in Masthlion’s breast, and his lips were moving as he communed with himself. ‘Shall she be told?’ he thought; ‘would she lose me, or still cling to me? We have reared and tended her—new ways beget new ideas—it is idle to say we will be thus and thus until the time try us. To go, and find ourselves despised hereafter, perchance, would be a crueller thing than to remain here forgotten and forsaken. Must she be told? She knows nothing, or is ever like to know—how then can it matter to her if she be left in ignorance? But am I not selfish? Would it be just? I am afraid—it is fear; for the knowledge would sign her relief at once. Even if she still clung to me, how would he, a noble‐born knight, take it? Yet, if she could disown me, after all our life of love and companionship, what is there honest or good in the world?’ A half‐smothered groan broke from his lips in the tension of his feelings. He drowned it with a forced cough, and turned round. He looked upon the lovers standing in their fond attitude. They were a handsome pair, and the one not a whit unworthy of the other in any degree. ‘Well, Masthlion, have you decided?’ said Martialis. ‘Have you dismissed your suspicion from your mind? You have hurt me by it, believe me!’