The next morning the old man whom he had seen in the Grove of Daphne, but never since, appeared mysteriously at the door of the house, as if he had been sent for, and entered like an invited guest.
Hermas could not but make him welcome, and at first he tried to regard him with reverence and affection as the one through whom fortune had come. But it was impossible. There was a chill in the inscrutable smile of Marcion, as he called himself, that seemed to mock at reverence. He was in the house as one watching a strange experiment—tranquil, interested, ready to supply anything that might be needed for its completion, but thoroughly indifferent to the feelings of the subject; an anatomist of life, looking curiously to see how long it would continue, and how it would act, after the heart had been removed.
In his presence Hermas was conscious of a certain irritation, a resentful anger against the calm, frigid scrutiny of the eyes that followed him everywhere, like a pair of spies, peering out over the smiling mouth and the long white beard.
“Why do you look at me so curiously?” asked Hermas, one morning, as they sat together in the library. “Do you see anything strange in me?”
“No,” answered Marcion; “something familiar.”
“And what is that?”
“A singular likeness to a discontented young man that I met some years ago in the Grove of Daphne.”
“But why should that interest you? Surely it was to be expected.”
“A thing that we expect often surprises us when we see it. Besides, my curiosity is piqued. I suspect you of keeping a secret from me.”
“You are jesting with me. There is nothing in my life that you do not know. What is the secret?”