The sick woman turned to Domitia with a sweet smile, and in courteous words entreated her to remain in her chamber so long as was necessary.
“My husband, Paris, the actor, is now out; but he will be home shortly, I trust—unless,” her face grew paler with sudden dread, “some ill have befallen him. Yet I think not that can be, he is a quiet, harmless man.”
“I thank you,” answered Domitia, and took a seat offered her by Eboracus.
She looked attentively at the sick woman’s face. She was no longer young, she had at one time been beautiful, she had large, lustrous dark eyes, and dark hair, but pain and weakness had sharpened her features. Yet there was such gentleness, patience, love in her face, a something which to Domitia was so new, a something so new in that old world, that she could not take her eyes off her, wondering what the fascination was.
Glyceria did not speak again, modestly waiting till the lady of rank chose to address her.
Presently Domitia asked:
“Have you been long ill?”
“A year, lady.”
“And may I inquire how it came about?”
“Alas! It is a sad story. My little boy——”