Appolidorus having laid his burden on the floor, kneels to untie the ropes.
The secretary explains that he need not trouble, pray bear thanks and again thanks to his master—he need not tarry!
The dumb man on his knees neither hears nor heeds.
The rug is unrolled.
From out the roll a woman leaps lightly to her feet—a beautiful young woman of twenty.
She stands there, poised, defiant, gazing at the pale-faced man seated at the table.
He is not surprised—he never was. One might have supposed he received all his visitors in this manner.
"Well?" he says in a quiet way, a half-smile parting his thin lips.
The woman's breast heaves with tumultuous emotion—just an instant. She speaks, and there is no tremor in her tones. Her voice is low, smooth and scarcely audible: "I am Cleopatra."
The man at the desk lays down his pen, leans back and gently nods his head, as much as to say, indulgently, "Yes, my child, I hear—go on!"