“Our dear master’s daughter, the lady Domitia Longina.”
The actor turned sharply, and was covered with confusion at the unexpected sight, and almost let his parcel fall.
Eboracus explained the circumstances. Then Paris expressed his happiness, and the pride he felt in being honored by the visit under his humble ceiling, of the lady, the daughter of the good and beloved master who had given him and Glyceria their freedom.
“Go forth, Eboracus,” said Domitia, “and I prithee learn how it has fared with my mother. Bring me word speedily, if thou canst.”
When the slave had withdrawn, she addressed Paris and Glyceria.
“I beseech you, suffer me to remain here in quiet, and concern not yourselves about me. I have been alarmed, and this has shaken me. I would fain rest in this seat and not speak. Go on with what ye have to say and do, and consider me not. So will you best please me.”
The actor was somewhat constrained at first, but after a little while overcame his reserve. He drew a low table beside his wife’s couch, and, stooping on one knee, began to unlade his bundle. He set out a number of terra cotta figures on the table, representing cocks and hens, pigs, horses, cows and men; some infinitely comical; at them Glyceria laughed.
Then, as she put forth a thin white hand to take up one of the quaintest images, Domitia noticed that Paris laid hold of it, and pressed it to his lips.
A lump rose in the girl’s throat.
“No,” thought she; “if I had one so to love me and consider me, though I were sick and in pain, I would not shorten my days. I would live to enjoy his love.”