"Know then," began Lepidus—
"Let me speak," cried Clodius; "you drawl out your words as if you spoke tortoises."
"And you speak stones," muttered the coxcomb to himself, as he fell back disdainfully on his couch.
"Know then, my Glaucus," said Clodius, "that Ione is a stranger, who has but lately come to Pompeii. She sings like Sappho, and her songs are her own composing; and as for the tibia, and the cithara, and the lyre, I know not in which she most outdoes the Muses. Her beauty is most dazzling. Her house is perfect; such taste—such gems—such bronzes! She is rich, and generous as she is rich."
"Her lovers, of course," said Glaucus, "take care that she does not starve; and money lightly won is always lavishly spent."
"Her lovers—ah, there is the enigma! Ione has but one vice—she is chaste. She has all Pompeii at her feet, and she has no lovers: she will not even marry."
"No lovers!" echoed Glaucus.
"No; she has the soul of Vesta, with the girdle of Venus."
"What refined expressions!" said the umbra.
"A miracle!" cried Glaucus. "Can we not see her?"