All this upon the simplest reasoning was ascribed to the influence of Cestus—because the change was simultaneous with his appearance in their midst. It was hardly possible to make a mistake in the matter. Tibia, at least, was certain. We have seen her stealing downstairs, to find her husband sitting, steeped in grief, before the cold ashes in the brazier, after his first interview with his brother‐in‐law. She had subsequently endeavoured to obtain an explanation from him, but, though his heart ached as well as feared to tell her, he was obliged to preserve his promise to Cestus, and undergo the additional pain of bearing his trouble in secret. Nor was she any more successful when she applied to Cestus himself, who, with his usual readiness, disclaimed all knowledge, and in fact looked rather surprised. Thus she was constrained to remain with a disagreeable shadow of a mystery hanging between her and her husband—the first experience of the kind since their companionship; and, perforce, in such a position as rendered her painfully helpless to give him any sympathy and help whatever. Neæra’s concern for her father, on the other hand, was mixed with a guilty feeling which pricked her sorely and would not be argued away. Those glances, which she caught at times fixed upon her, seemed full of reproach, and were well‐nigh insupportable. To her exaggerated fancy they seemed to say, ‘Look what you have done! Thus have you repaid my love and care by your wilfulness.’ In this way she connected his trouble with her relation to Martialis, and no more bitter conclusion could be arrived at, since it placed in direct antagonism the two beings she most loved on earth. She reflected how gradually and reluctantly the potter had given way to her betrothal. How, at first, he had almost absolutely refused to listen at all; his journey to Rome, and final, tardy assent—given, as she felt sure, not because he approved, but because he had not been able to discover any tangible ground or excuse for objection. But, she further reflected, even then, at the worst, his anxiety took no such dark shape as at present. He never avoided her, as he appeared to do now, to her unspeakable sorrow. Then he conversed freely and without restraint on the matter, and, if more anxious and earnest at times, he never entirely lost his customary cheerfulness. It was with the arrival of her uncle from Rome the change had at once become manifest, and one day, when alone with the Suburan, she taxed him with it, and desired him to explain the coincidence, if possible.