"Perhaps Glyceria does not even live here," he thought, and just at that moment heard his name uttered behind him. He turned. Before him stood a pale, slender woman, in a simple snow-white robe, whose folds concealed her figure up to her chin and covered her arms to the wrists. This was not the alluring costume that suited a love adventure. The face was still less seductive. Deep, despairing, consuming grief, that blight of beauty, was expressed in every feature.
Manlius recognised Glyceria. His blood rushed feverishly to his temples, and he convulsively clutched the hilt of his sword. Yet he did not wish to kill her thus. He thought that this, too, was only a new variety of the arts of temptation in which women are such adepts. When a libertine is to be attracted, the graces are called to aid; if it is a hero, Minerva must be summoned to help. Clothes, moods, will correspond with the character of the chosen individual; nay, even the features will be altered so that they will appear different to every one. He could not kill her while she looked so sad; he must await the moment when she began to speak to him of her love to thrust his sword into her heart at the first yearning smile.
Pausing with drooping head, three paces from Manlius, the lady faltered almost too low for him to hear:
"You have come late. Very late."
Manlius, with suppressed fury, answered:
"Is love a fruit that becomes overripe if it waits long?"
Glyceria looked at Manlius in horror.
"What is the matter with you that you speak to me of love?"
"Did you not summon me that we might whisper together of rapture, bliss, and sweet delights?"
"Once your words would have given me pleasure; now horror seizes me when you speak in this way."