The negress put the cup to her lips, and contrived, for her own reasons, to spill the contents unobserved.
‘A very fine lecture that of the Lady Hypatia’s the other morning, on Helen’s nepenthe,’ quoth the little porter, growing philosophic as the wine-fumes rose. ‘Such a power of extracting the cold water of philosophy out of the bottomless pit of Mythus, I never did hear. Did you ever, my Philammonidion?’
‘Aha! she and I were talking about that half an hour ago,’ said Miriam.
‘What! have you seen her?’ asked Philammon, with a flutter of the heart.
‘If you mean, did she mention you,—why, then, yes!’
‘How?—how?’
‘Talked of a young Phoebus Apollo—without mentioning names, certainly, but in the most sensible, and practical, and hopeful way—the wisest speech that I have heard from her this twelvemonth.’
Philammon blushed scarlet.
‘And that,’ thought he, in spite of what passed this morning!—Why’ what is the matter with our host?’
‘He has taken Solomon’s advice, and forgotten his sorrow.’