’Shall I guess the object?—­Is it not Diomed’s daughter?  She adores you, and does not affect to conceal it; and, by Hercules, I say again and again, she is both handsome and rich.  She will bind the door-posts of her husband with golden fillets.’

’No, I do not desire to sell myself.  Diomed’s daughter is handsome, I grant:  and at one time, had she not been the grandchild of a freedman, I might have...  Yet no—­she carries all her beauty in her face; her manners are not maiden-like, and her mind knows no culture save that of pleasure.’

‘You are ungrateful.  Tell me, then, who is the fortunate virgin?’

’You shall hear, my Clodius.  Several months ago I was sojourning at Neapolis, a city utterly to my own heart, for it still retains the manners and stamp of its Grecian origin—­and it yet merits the name of Parthenope, from its delicious air and its beautiful shores.  One day I entered the temple of Minerva, to offer up my prayers, not for myself more than for the city on which Pallas smiles no longer.  The temple was empty and deserted.  The recollections of Athens crowded fast and meltingly upon me:  imagining myself still alone in the temple, and absorbed in the earnestness of my devotion, my prayer gushed from my heart to my lips, and I wept as I prayed.  I was startled in the midst of my devotions, however, by a deep sigh; I turned suddenly round, and just behind me was a female.  She had raised her veil also in prayer:  and when our eyes met, methought a celestial ray shot from those dark and smiling orbs at once into my soul.  Never, my Clodius, have I seen mortal face more exquisitely molded:  a certain melancholy softened and yet elevated its expression:  that unutterable something, which springs from the soul, and which our sculptors have imparted to the aspect of Psyche, gave her beauty I know not what of divine and noble; tears were rolling down her eyes.  I guessed at once that she was also of Athenian lineage; and that in my prayer for Athens her heart had responded to mine.  I spoke to her, though with a faltering voice—­“Art thou not, too, Athenian?” said I, “O beautiful virgin!” At the sound of my voice she blushed, and half drew her veil across her face.—­“My forefathers’ ashes,” said she, “repose by the waters of Ilissus:  my birth is of Neapolis; but my heart, as my lineage, is Athenian.”—­“Let us, then,” said I, “make our offerings together”:  and, as the priest now appeared, we stood side by side, while we followed the priest in his ceremonial prayer; together we touched the knees of the goddess—­together we laid our olive garlands on the altar.  I felt a strange emotion of almost sacred tenderness at this companionship.  We, strangers from a far and fallen land, stood together and alone in that temple of our country’s deity:  was it not natural that my heart should yearn to my countrywoman, for so I might surely call her?  I felt as if I had known her for years; and that simple rite seemed, as by a miracle, to operate on