‘Nothing but yourself,’ he said quietly; ‘that is why I asked you to persuade him now rather than leave it later.’
Neæra wrinkled her pretty brows and perused her companion’s dark-hued shaggy face with an anxious, inquiring look. Then she shook her head.
‘I cannot understand,’ she said; ‘to say that of me seems to be nonsense.’
‘Don’t you see?’ exclaimed Cestus, reaching out his arm, and laying his thick forefinger on her hand, as it rested on her knee, ‘don’t you see? When you become the wife of Martialis he will take you to Rome, and by and by your—Masthlion will be unable to live without the sight of you, so he will assuredly follow. It is as plain and sure as the sun in heaven.’
The faintest shadow of a smile rested on her lips, and she dropped her gaze from his face to the burning logs. The delicate lids drooped over the lustre of her eyes, and a warmer tint suffused her skin.
‘It will be time when I go to Rome,’ she murmured; ‘wait till that comes to pass.’
‘Therefore you will not help to persuade him to go now, as I recommend?’
‘I will not say a word.’
‘Think of the blessed change—the sights and shows, such as you never dream of. When you are there you will say, “How did I live in such a dog’s hole as that?”—meaning Surrentum.’
‘I think I have passed too many pleasant days here to think that ever,’ replied Neæra; ‘but my own inclinations have nothing to do with it, nor shall they.’