She laid a pink finger-tip between his eyes.
"—there is a blight on thy comeliness."
"Dost thou urge me to give over mine efforts? If so, speak, that I may tell thee I can not obey!" he declared.
"No? Not even if thy work maketh another unhappy—whom thou wouldst not have to be unhappy?"
He looked at her: did she mean Lydia? Or was she concerned for Classicus?
"Art thou defending Classicus?" he asked.
"Nay," she smiled, "but I defend myself!"
This was puzzling, and at best irrelevant. He had come, burdened with trouble and concern for Agrippa's life, and she was leading away into less serious things. It was not like her to be capricious. Perhaps there was more in her meaning than he had grasped.
"I pray thee," she continued, "mingle a little sweet with thy toil!"
He arose and moved away from her.