On the third day after the departure of Martialis, he was sitting alone over the fire in the house, with his elbow on his knee and his hairy chin on his hand, deeply occupied in arranging his method of procedure, or rather in deciding on the manner of approaching Masthlion on the subject, since the potter’s assent was the only real difficulty to be met. His meditations were interrupted by the touch of a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw Neæra standing beside him. He made as if to rise, with the deference he had acquired in her presence, but, without removing her hand from his bulky shoulder, she pressed him gently down in his place.
‘You were very deep in your thoughts, uncle; you never heard me come.’
‘That’s true enough,’ he replied, with a smile; ‘but your footstep lacks weight to rouse a sleeper or day-dreamer.’
‘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.