‘You were not asleep, unless you sleep with your eyes open,’ said Neæra. ‘You were deep enough in a day‐dream, therefore. I can guess—was it not of Rome?’ ‘Well, that among other things, I am bound to say,’ replied Cestus. ‘I have come to ask you about my father. Have you ever thought of him since we last spoke?’ ‘I—I have not had a convenient opportunity,’ said Cestus, with hesitation. ‘What, not in all this time? Ah, that is a poor excuse!’ ‘To speak truth, I was thinking of him when you came in,’ said Cestus, guiltily dropping his eyes to the fire; ‘I was making up my mind to talk to him before night.’ ‘It is dusk already,’ said Neæra, shaking her head gently as if scarce believing him. ‘That is so,’ replied Cestus, sweeping his glance round the little room, where the shadows were gathering thick, and the flickering flames of the fire in the brazier were beginning to define themselves on the walls; ‘but there yet remains plenty of time. I am going to open a weighty subject with him, so I am taking time to consider.’ ‘And what may that be?’ asked Neæra, seating herself on a stool beside him and looking into his face. Cestus kept his glance on the fire as he replied: ‘It is not indeed so grave a matter after all, but he is sure to make it so. I want him to cut loose from this tomb of a town and take up his abode in Rome. It is the only place for a man of skill. Here he is buried.’ ‘Here we have been very happy and content, until lately,’ responded the fair girl, with a sigh. ‘I don’t think you will succeed.’ ‘Yes, if you would help me,’ observed Cestus. ‘My father is the best judge, and I will abide by what he says.’ ‘He must go eventually,’ said the Suburan, emphasising the word _must_, ‘so that you might as well persuade him to move with me at once.’ ‘Must go! And what is there then to compel him?’ said Neæra quickly, in surprise. The Suburan’s eyes twinkled as he shot a sidelong glance at her beautiful face. ‘Nothing but yourself,’ he said quietly; ‘that is why I asked you to persuade him now rather than leave it later.’ Neæra wrinkled her pretty brows and perused her companion’s dark‐hued shaggy face with an anxious, inquiring look. Then she shook her head. ‘I cannot understand,’ she said; ‘to say that of me seems to be nonsense.’ ‘Don’t you see?’ exclaimed Cestus, reaching out his arm, and laying his thick forefinger on her hand, as it rested on her knee, ‘don’t you see? When you become the wife of Martialis he will take you to Rome, and by and by your—Masthlion will be unable to live without the sight of you, so he will assuredly follow. It is as plain and sure as the sun in heaven.’ The faintest shadow of a smile rested on her lips, and she dropped her gaze from his face to the burning logs. The delicate lids drooped over the lustre of her eyes, and a warmer tint suffused her skin. ‘It will be time when I go to Rome,’ she murmured; ‘wait till that comes to pass.’