‘Opinion!’ echoed Cestus, ‘my opinion is that they have already settled the matter beyond your interference, or mine. If they have taken such a strong fancy for each other that is enough for sensible people.’ ‘But the youth—the Pretorian—do you approve of him?’ said Masthlion impatiently. ‘That is a question more of sentiment,’ replied Cestus, ‘and, as the girl belongs more to yourself than to me, I will leave it with you—if you are satisfied I am.’ ‘One thing troubles me,’ said the potter, knitting his brows and passing his hand across his forehead, ‘I could wish he had been more on a level with her station—she has been humbly bred in this house—do you not think, Cestus, there is great fear of his fancy cooling as time goes on? He will for ever be contrasting her simple, plain ways with those proud dames of the city, and he will repent. Ah, Cestus, I fear he will!’ ‘Humph!’ said the Suburan, shrugging his shoulders, whilst a grin broke forth on his face, ‘she must run the chance of that accident. Perhaps there may not turn out to be such a difference between them after all. To my eyes she seems as good as he is, and practice will alter her. You have a fancy that your daughter may some day tire of her elevation and return to her old ways under the same old roof.’ ‘Heaven forbid! I trust she may be happy with husband and children.’ ‘Just so. _I_ have no objection whatever,’ observed Cestus calmly, ‘but there remains _one_ who might, and, until that opinion is obtained, my tall young Pretorian must practise patience and restrain himself, even though he burst.’ ‘How! What do you mean?’ cried Masthlion. ‘Another—you never told me.’ ‘No, I did not; it was not necessary or wise at the time, which I think is some fourteen or fifteen years ago.’ Masthlion nodded, and his face betrayed the most intense eagerness. Cestus continued coolly, ‘I brought that child to you as a yellow‐haired brat, and told you she was an orphan of a poor workman, an old friend of mine. The story was a lie and I deceived you.’ The blood crimsoned the potter’s face, and he drew up his form. Indignation glowed in his eyes, but curbing himself, he said with lofty reproach, ‘A lie, Cestus—that was well indeed.’ ‘Nay, don’t fluster yourself, kinsman,’ continued the Suburan, with the utmost _sang froid_, ‘it was as good a tale to tell you at the time as any. It did you no harm, for you knew no better; nor did I dream that the necessity would ever come that you should. You were without a brat, so I thought you would be glad of this one. I handed it over to you as a stray helpless fledgeling belonging to nobody, and your mind has consequently never been uneasy.’ ‘Well, and the truth?’