“I think that I told you of my uncle Caius, who was pro-consul under the late emperor for the richest province of Spain, and—made use of his opportunities.”
“Yes.”
“Well, the old man has been smitten with a mortal disease. For aught I know he may be already dead, although the physicians seemed to think he would live for another ten months, or perhaps a year. Being in this case, suddenly he has grown fond of his relations, or rather relation, for I am the only one, and expressed a desire to see me, to whom for many years he has never given a single penny. He has even announced his intention—by letter—of making me his heir ‘should he find me worthy,’ which, to succeed Caius, whatever my faults, indeed I am not, since of all men, as I have told him in past days, I hold him the worst. Still, he has forwarded a sum of money to enable me to journey to him in haste, and with it a letter from the Cæsar, Nero, to the procurator Albinus, commanding him to give me instant leave to go. Therefore, lady, it seems wise that I should go.”
“Yes,” answered Miriam. “I know little of such things, but I think that it is wise. Within two hours the bust shall be finished and packed,” and she stretched out her hand in farewell.
Marcus took the hand and held it. “I am loth to part with you thus,” he said suddenly.
“There is only one fashion of parting,” answered Miriam, striving to withdraw her hand.
“Nay, there are many; and I hate them all—from you.”
“Sir,” she asked with gentle indignation, “is it worth your while to play off these pretty phrases upon me? We have met for an hour; we separate—for a lifetime.”
“I do not see the need of that. Oh, the truth may as well out. I wish it least of all things.”
“Yet it is so. Come, let my hand go; the marble must be finished and packed.”