Meantime his young slave, Paegnion, was sauntering idly about the house. He was tired, so he welcomed the event when some one unexpectedly spoke to him in the peristyle of the women’s apartment.
“What is your name, my lad?” asked a gay, musical voice from one of the little openings in the wall facing the peristyle.
Paegnion looked up. All he saw inside the small opening was a delicate white hand, which had drawn aside the Coan curtain, some shining braids of brown hair, a gold fillet, and a pair of mischievous black eyes, whose sparkle vied with the fillet.
“What is your name, my lad?” the voice repeated.
“Paegnion.”
“A pretty name! Are many boys in Athens called Paegnion as well as you?”
“Some, but not many.”
“Has your master a pretty name too?”
“He is called Lycon.”
“Has he no other name?”