“Why wash it?” he said, looking at the flask with a strange smile. “It can have held nothing worse than I intend to buy.”
Callippides then left the house, and did not return until the evening.
Manes had scarcely lighted the double-wicked lamp, when his master said in a curt, imperious tone:
“Bring water, efface these inscriptions, and wash the walls clean.”
The old man would fain have hugged his master, but he had not forgotten how badly he had fared when he let fall a word about the hymeneal torches. Yet never had he obeyed a command with greater joy. Still, zealously as he worked, it was not quick enough for Callippides.
With a restlessness very unusual, he wandered to and fro hurrying the slave every moment.
At last the walls were partially cleaned, but the water stood in great pools on the flagged floor.
“Let it stay,” said Callippides curtly, “it will soon sink into the ground.”
Then he added:
“Come here, Manes!” and, after having gazed at him with a long, earnest glance, he said with the same strange gentleness as on the evening before.