The subject had no charm for him, and his mind rankled with the irritating bearing of the man opposite. His last allusion astonished him not a little, inasmuch as the pointed manner of its delivery revealed to him the knight’s knowledge of his connection with Surrentum; but, after the potter’s communication to the Prefect, the matter would easily and naturally filter to the ear of the confidant, Domitius Afer. Nevertheless, the blood burned in his veins and flamed in his cheeks when his mind, so sensitive on this question, tortured itself by imagining how the loose and irreverent tongues of his commander and the sneering individual across the table, had, doubtless, amused themselves with the purest and most delicate feeling his heart could know. This thought added to the disgust and fierce hostility which bubbled in his breast, on account of the nephew of Fabricius, for whose disagreeable manner he was able to ascribe no reason, except a paltry feeling of spite and envy. But even these distempered reflections gave way to the soothing and delightful contemplation of his speedy removal to the immediate neighbourhood of his beloved; and, in an interval of these self‐communings, he became aware that the dialogue upon the merits of artistic ware was flagging and moribund. The pleasure of his visit had long departed, and he seized the opportunity of taking his leave. Rising, therefore, he pleaded the exigency of some camp regulation, and Fabricius left his seat also, to escort his guest to the porch. ‘My nephew has not made himself altogether agreeable to you,’ said the latter, as they stood hand in hand ere they parted; ‘something has probably tried his humour ere he came; but you will not allow that to militate between us twain. You can afford to pass over his whims, for they are not worth your serious thought.’ ‘Easily!’