Dorothea for her part had no need of such considerations, since she possessed another safeguard against the governor's attentions in the shape of her liking for his private secretary, Theophilus, who was standing beside her at that moment, and looking with interest at the rosy bowl.
Theophilus was an exceedingly refined, cultivated man of Greek descent, who had risen in spite of adverse circumstances and was held in high esteem by all. But the hardships of his early years had left him somewhat suspicious and reserved, and, while he was satisfied with what he owed to his own exertions, he was loth to believe that any one attached himself to him from disinterested motives. The sight of the young Dorothea was dear to him as his life, but the very fact that the chief man in Cappadocia was paying court to her prevented him from cherishing any hopes for himself, and he would not at any price have run the risk of cutting a ridiculous figure beside his lordship.
Nevertheless, Dorothea sought to conduct her desires to a happy issue, and in the meantime to assure herself of his presence as often as possible. Because he always appeared calm and indifferent, her passion provoked her to dangerous little stratagems, and she tried to move him by means of jealousy by pretending to be interested in the governor Fabricius, and to be on friendly terms with him. But poor Theophilus was an innocent in such tricks, and, even if he had understood them, was far too proud to show any jealousy. Yet by degrees he became distracted and perplexed, and sometimes betrayed himself, but always promptly recollected himself and recovered his reserve, so that his tender sweetheart had nothing for it but to proceed somewhat forcibly, and pull in her net unexpectedly when opportunity offered.
He was out in Pontus on state business, and Dorothea, who was aware of this, had accompanied her parents from Cæsarea to the country-house for the spring, which had just begun. Thus she had managed, after painfully-devised and ingenious man[oe]uvres, to get him into the arbour that morning, partly as if by accident, partly as if with friendly intent, so that both his good luck and her good graces should make him happy and confiding, as indeed they did.
She wished to show him the vase, which a kind uncle had sent her as a birthday present from Trebizond. Her countenance was radiant from sheer joy at having her beloved beside her alone, and at being able to show him something pretty, and he too was genuinely happy. Besides, there was sunshine in his heart at last, so that he could no longer keep his lips from smiling trustfully nor his eyes from sparkling.
But the ancients have forgotten to give a name to the envious divinity, the rival of gentle Eros, who, at the critical moment when good fortune is closest at hand, throws a veil over lovers' eyes, and twists the word in their mouth.
As she gave the bowl trustfully into his hands, and he asked who had sent it to her, a merry rashness misled her into the jest of answering "Fabricius." She felt sure that Theophilus could not fail to see the joke. But, as she was unable to give her merry excited smile that shade of mockery at the mention of the absent one, which would have made the jest evident, Theophilus was firmly convinced that her sweet and genuine joy was due to the present and its giver, and that he had fallen into a nasty trap by intruding into a circle which was forbidden and strange to him. Confounded and ashamed, he cast down his eyes, began to tremble, and let the glittering ornament fall to the ground, where it was shivered to pieces.
In her first dismay, Dorothea forgot all about her joke, and almost forgot Theophilus, and could only stoop aghast to pick up the pieces, exclaiming "How clumsy!" without bestowing a look upon him; so that she did not see the alteration in his features, and had no suspicion that he had misunderstood her.
But, when she had risen, and, recovering herself quickly, turned towards him, Theophilus had already regained his proud self-command. He looked at her inscrutably and indifferently, begged almost mockingly for pardon, promising her full restitution for the vase which had come to grief, then bowed and left the garden.
Pale and sorrowful she looked after his slim figure, with the white toga wrapped closely about it, and his black curly head bent to one side as if his thoughts were already far away from her.