There was seldom much change in the party at the Imperial supper‐table. Plautia, therefore, met the familiar faces, amongst whom were Afer and the Prefect. The task of appearing utterly indifferent and unobservant when, at the same time, the breast is unusually susceptible and sick with nervous dread, is so difficult as to be seldom or never acted with success. The result with Plautia was, that her bearing became haughty and stiff to an unusual degree. Her distempered mind appropriated every smile and jest as in some way connected with herself. Her disordered fancy even reached to the slaves behind her back, furnishing them with imagined nods and winks, and _sotto‐voce_ jokes. The exclusive demands on her vigilance by this morbid sensitiveness naturally engendered an abstraction from the conversation of the company, which was particularly noticeable, in contrast to her customary mood. As she was moreover, somewhat pale, Tiberius expressed a fear that she was unwell. Assuring him to the contrary, she made a spasmodic attempt to recover her sprightliness, but, unable to sustain it, she gradually relapsed into her former mood. No further notice, however, was taken. When the business of eating was over, and the conversation began to lag somewhat, Zeno, whose watchfulness had a care for everything, leaned over the Imperial couch and whispered in his master’s ear. Tiberius nodded. ‘’Tis an artisan from Surrentum, friends, who desires to show me something—some extraordinary discovery. It may amuse us to see what it is,’ said the Emperor. In a few moments the Greek returned, followed by Masthlion, who seemed to be dazzled for a moment by the lights and glitter of the luxuriously‐ appointed apartment. The Surrentine’s eyes had never been suffered to fall upon such magnificence crowded within the limits of four walls. When to this was added the scrutiny of the richly‐attired guests at table, whom he concluded to be people of the highest rank, including Caesar himself, his temporary embarrassment was only natural. As he stepped inside the room, he made a deep obeisance towards a confused gleam, mingled with forms and faces. But speedily recovering himself, his keen eye roved swiftly round, and noted every particular and face, even of the slaves who stood clustered aside. Thence his gaze returned and rested on the pale, blotched face and brilliant eyes, which, by repute, he knew belonged to his ruler. ‘Approach!’ said Tiberius. The potter stepped forward into the middle of the floor opposite to the table, and on his flanks, at the same time, moved the Pretorian of the guard, who had attended him into the room. He was dressed in his best dark woollen tunic, and carried in his hand a wallet. His striking face, with its pale massive brow and deep‐set bright eyes, caught the attention of all and he stood calmly sustaining the scrutiny of every eye.