‘An hour before, Masthlion; and if I want thee before that I will send.’
The potter went home, and after gathering a few articles of clothing and food together in a wallet, he quietly resumed work until the time came for departure. During this period Neæra glided into the workshop. A new and radiant expression beamed on her face and sparkled in her beautiful gray eyes. The delicate colour of her cheek was deeper. An unconscious smile seemed to play on her lips, as though responding to the springs of joy and hope within. The loosely-girded tunic of coarse, poor fabric could not hide the graceful curves of her lithe figure, which promised a splendid maturity. Her household work had caused her to tuck up her sleeves, and her revealed arms and wrists gleamed white and round. Her loveliness seemed to the potter literally to bloom afresh as he glanced at her.
‘Father,’ said she, ‘you are going to Rome?’
‘I am, child, and Silo’s felucca sails by noon at the latest,’ he answered, without raising his head.
‘You are going because of me, father?’ she continued, drawing nearer.
He did not answer.
‘It is I who am sending you to Rome, father?’
‘You have said it, child. But I shall, at the same time, satisfy a lifelong desire to see the great city; and I may be able, likewise, to pick up a hint or two from the Roman shops.’
‘As far as I am concerned, father, you need not give yourself the trouble.’
‘Wherefore?’ asked the potter, in doubt as to her meaning.