“You are sharp enough, my little sister,” answered Aristo, “to know perfectly well who is the goddess he is desirous of purchasing.”
Callista laughed carelessly, but made no reply.
“Come, child,” Aristo continued, “don’t be cruel to him. Wreath a garland for him by the time he comes. He’s well to do, and modest withal, and needs encouragement.”
“He’s well enough,” said Callista.
“I say he’s a fellow too well off to be despised as a lover,” proceeded her brother, “and it would be a merit with the gods to rid him of his superstition.”
“Not much of a Christian,” she made answer, “if he is set upon me.”
“For whose sake has he been coming here so often, mine or yours, Callista?”
“I am tired of such engagements,” she replied. She went on with her painting, and several times seemed as if she would have spoken, but did not. Then, without interrupting her work, she said calmly, “Time was, it gratified my conceit and my feelings to have hangers on. Indeed, without them, how [pg 117]should we have had means to come here? But there’s a weariness in all things.”
“A weariness! Where is this bad humour to end?” cried Aristo; “it has been a long fit; shake it off while you can, or it will be too much for you. What can you mean? a weariness! You are over young to bid youth farewell. Aching hearts for aching bones. So young and so perverse! We must take things as the gods give them. You will ask for them in vain when you are old. One day above, another day beneath; one while young, another while old. Enjoy life while you have it in your hand.” He had said this as he worked. Then he stopped, and turned round to her, with his graving-tool in his hand. “Recollect old Lesbia, how she used to squeak out to me, with her nodding head and trembling limbs”—here he mimicked the old crone—“ ‘My boy, take your pleasure while you can. I can’t take pleasure—my day is over; but I don’t reproach myself. I had a merry time of it while it lasted. Time stops for no one, but I did my best; I don’t reproach myself.’ There’s the true philosopher, though a slave; more outspoken than Æsop, more practical than Epictetus.”
Callista began singing to herself:—