“For whom save the good old man who was my father’s preceptor, and his just claim?” replied Dion frankly.  “Moreover—­for no site more unsuitable could be found than his garden-in behalf of good taste.”

Iras laughed a shrill, short laugh, and her narrow, regularly formed face, which might have been called beautiful, had not the bridge of the straight delicate nose been too long and the chin too small, darkened slightly, as she exclaimed, “That is frank at least.”

“You ought to be accustomed to that from me,” replied Dion calmly.  “In this case, however, the expert, Gorgias, fully shares my opinion.”

“I heard that too.  You are both the most constant visitors of—­what is the woman’s name?—­the bewitching Barine.”

“Barine?” repeated Dion, as if the mention of the name surprised him.  “You take care, my friend, that our conversation does honour to its scene, the labyrinth.  I speak of works of the sculptor’s art, and you pretend that I am referring to what is most certainly a very successful living work from the creative hands of the gods.  I was very far from thinking of the granddaughter of the old scholar for whom I interceded.”

“Ay,” she scornfully retorted, “young gentlemen in your position, and with your habits of life, always think of their fathers estimable teachers rather than of the women who, ever since Pandora opened her box, have brought all sorts of misfortunes into the world.  But,” she added, pushing back her dark locks from her high forehead, “I don’t understand myself, how, with the mountain of care that now burdens my soul, I can waste even a single word upon such trifles.  I care as little for the aged scholar as I do for his legion of commentaries and books, though they are not wholly unfamiliar to me.  For any concern of mine he might have as many grandchildren as there are evil tongues in Alexandria, were it not that just at this time it is of the utmost importance to remove everything which might cast a shadow on the Queen’s pathway.  I have just come from the palace of the royal children at Lochias, and what I learned there.  But that—­I will not, I cannot believe it.  It fairly stifles me!”

“Have you received bad news from the fleet?” questioned Dion, with sincere anxiety; but she only bent her head in assent, laying her fan of ostrich-plumes on her lips to enjoin silence, at the same time shivering so violently that he perceived it, even in the dusk.  It was evident that speech was difficult, as she added in a muffled tone:  “It must be kept secret—­Rhodian sailors—­thank the gods, it is still very doubtful—­it cannot, must not be true—­and yet-the prattle of that zither-player, which has filled the multitude with joyous anticipation, is abominable—­the great ones of the earth are often most sorely injured by those who owe them the most gratitude.  I know you can be silent, Dion.  You could as a boy, if anything was to be hidden from our parents.  Would you still be ready to plunge into the water for me, as in those days?  Scarcely.  Yet you may be trusted, and, even in this labyrinth, I will do so.  My heart is heavy.  But not one word to any person.  I need no confidant and could maintain silence even towards you, but I am anxious that you should understand me, you who have just taken such a stand.  Before I entered my litter at Lochias, the boy returned, and I talked with him.”