She hurried to the outer court, whispering anxiously: "Come, son of
Varro. Oh, come quickly, son of Varro!"
When Vergilius arrived Arria was waiting for him there in the court of the palace. Her white silk rustled as she ran to meet him. Her cheeks had the pink of roses and her eyes a glow in them like that of diamonds. She stopped as he came near, and turned away.
"Tears?" said he, leaning down, with his arms about her. "Oh, love, let me see your face!"
She turned quickly with a little toss of her head and took a step backward.
"You shall not call me love," said she—"not yet. You have not told me that you love me."
"I told all who were at the palace of the great father."
"But you have not told me, son of Varro."
"I do love you." He was approaching.
"Hush! Not now," she answered, taking his hand in hers—temporizing.
"Come, I will race with you."
She ran, leading him, with quick, pattering feet through an inner hall and up the long triclinium. There, presently, she threw herself upon the heap of cushions.