‘Your breastplate and cloak become you the best, but they mean haste away. This is the most welcome to me, for it is your own dress and——’
‘And says that, for a time at least, its wearer is his own master, to spend his leisure as he lists,’ said Martialis, finishing her speech and fondling the hand which rested on the bosom of his garment. ‘I have come here, foolish or not, to pass the few hours at my command. Will you offer me no more hospitality than this shop can give?’
‘Come,’ she said, giving him a divine smile, and holding out her hand to lead him inside; ‘but ah, Lucius, we are so poor and simple!’
The little dwelling-room, under the industrious and fastidious hands of herself and her mother, was seldom far removed [pg 175]from a state of scrupulous cleanliness and genial comfort. The articles of furniture which it contained were well worn, but speckless; and a bright wood fire, burning in a brazier, cheered and warmed the senses of an in-comer. At the door Neæra ran abruptly off, and her lover was left to the company of the patient, mild-eyed Tibia, her mother. The latter was engaged in scrubbing a brazen pot into a sunlike lustre, and although there were grounds for reasonable familiarity of bearing toward her visitor, yet the attempt came awkwardly and uncomfortably enough. This wore off, however, in a measure with the free, easy bearing of the young man, who sat and warmed himself at the fireside. When Neæra subsequently reappeared, she shone upon him in the best robes her slender wardrobe could furnish. They were modest and simple indeed. A few coins were all their worth, but poor as they were, her beauty made them seem handsome. Fresh and neat from her toilet, with her clear delicately-tinted skin and glossy hair, her person seemed to diffuse a delicious sense of purity and sweetness. She smiled upon the Centurion in the proud consciousness of her charms, and the dame Tibia, also, could not help paying her an especial look of approval.
‘How the child is growing into a woman,’ she murmured beneath her breath.
Neæra reached forth her hand to her lover, and the drapery of her tunic, falling back a little, displayed a rounded arm and wrist of the whiteness of the snowdrift, to which the tinge of toil-accustomed fingers bore a slight contrast.
‘Come,’ she said; ‘we will go and see my father.’
Taking his hand she led him to the workshop in the rear of the house, abutting on the patch of garden. On trying to open the door they found it fast, but they could hear the movements of the potter within. Neæra knocked and called upon her father loudly.
The bolt was drawn within, and they stood face to face with Masthlion, who was surprised at seeing his daughter’s companion.
‘Welcome, Centurion,’ he said. ‘Though Neæra had little need to bring you in here amid the clay of a potter’s shop.’