‘The idiot—he has seen many such, doubtless. Am I to be answerable for the presumption of such fools?’ said she, turning her head swiftly toward him with a withering blast of scorn and contempt. The knight’s face became like pallid marble, but, apparently impenetrable, he replied— ‘Surely not, if it be of their own cultivation. There can be no blame to you.’ ‘Thanks!’ ‘Nevertheless one should feel pity and not scorn; for who knows how soon the same fate may overtake oneself? Ill‐starred Martialis is not the first nor the last who has suffered from misplaced infatuation.’ Her face was in profile, and his eyes scanned it keenly. ‘Of course Plautia knows I am speaking of Caius Martialis, the bosom friend of Apicius,’ he went on, with slow distinctness. ‘There is also another Martialis, his brother Lucius, a Centurion of the Pretorian guard, at present in attendance here on our worthy friend the Prefect. Do you know this one?’ ‘It matters not whether I do or not; it is not worth the trouble to try and remember. I am ever grateful for your visit, your company, your entertaining conversation, which has beguiled my loneliness. And now I must bid good‐night—it grows chilly.’ She roused herself from her leaning posture, and gathered up her drapery preparatory to moving off. Afer’s eyes were still riveted on her countenance. Her mocking words were easily borne after the insulting demeanour already experienced. Something like a cold smile rested on his lips as he watched her. He did not feel disposed to leave her yet. Her behaviour had stung him deeply, and the bitterness which gnawed him so grievously was too keen to be borne without the solace of retaliation. He waited a few moments until she was on the point of retiring, without any further notice of him, and then said, in a low voice— ‘It would be better worth your while than you think, Plautia, to strive to remember if the soldier‐brother be amongst your acquaintance or not.’ ‘Another time when I am more disposed,’ she sternly answered, beginning to descend the grassy mound on which they stood. ‘At your own gracious pleasure,’ he repined, as he leisurely followed. ‘I mentioned it, because I thought it might interest you to know, that whether the acquaintance really exist or not, there are rumours in the island of a somewhat close relationship between you.’ She stopped short, and turned round upon him—so swiftly and sharply, that the skirts and folds of her garments whirled out on the air. ‘Rumours—what rumours? What close relationship? What do you mean?’ she said, with the haughtiness of a queen to a slave. ‘Nothing, but what my words plainly convey. Let me repeat—it is said in the island that a warm friendship exists between yourself and the Centurion Martialis.’ ‘And what of that? Is it not permitted to me to have warm friends as well as others?’