Rome, even, could not boast of a handsomer street, and Dada expressed her delight with frank eagerness; but Karnis did not echo her praises; he was indignant at finding that the Christians had removed a fine statue of the venerable Nile-god surrounded by the playful forms of his infant children, which had formerly graced the fountain in the middle of the avenue, and had also overthrown or mutilated the statues of Hermes that had stood by the roadside.  Orpheus sympathized in his wrath which reached its climax when, on looking for two statues, of Demeter and of Pallas Athene, of which Karnis had spoken to his son as decorating the gateway of one of the finest houses in the city, they beheld instead, mounted on the plinths, two coarsely-wrought images of the Lamb with its Cross.

“Like two rats that have been caught under a stone!” cried the old man.  “And what is most shameful is that I would wager that they have destroyed the statues which were the pride of the town and thrown them on a rubbish heap.  In my day this house belonged to a rich man named Philippus.  But stop—­was not he the father of our hospitable protector . . .”

“The steward spoke of Porphyrius as the son of Philippus,” Orpheus said.

“And Philippus was a corn merchant, too,” added Karnis.  “Demeter was figurative of a blessing on the harvest, for it was from that the house derived its wealth, and Pallas Athene was patroness of the learning that was encouraged by its owners.  When I was a student here every wealthy man belonged to some school of philosophy.  The money-bag did not count for everything.  Heathen or Jew, whether engaged in business or enjoying the revenues of an inherited fortune, a man was expected to be able to talk of something besides the price of merchandise and the coming and sailing of vessels.”

During this conversation Dada had withdrawn her hand from the old man’s arm to raise her veil, for two men had gone up to the gate between the images that had roused Karnis to wrath, and one of them, who at this instant knocked at the door, was Mary’s son.

“Father, see, there he is!” cried Dada, as the door was opened, speaking louder than was at all necessary to enable her companion to hear her; the musician at once recognized Marcus, and turning to his son he said: 

“Now we may be quite sure!  Porphyrius and this young Christian’s father were brothers.  Philippus must have left his house to his eldest son who is the one that is dead, and it now belongs no doubt to Mary, his widow.  I must admit, child, that you choose your adorers from respectable families!”

“I should think so,” said the girl laughing.  “And that is why he is so proud.  My fine gentleman has not even a glance to cast at us.  Bang! the door is shut.  Come along, uncle!”

The young man in question entered the hall of his father’s house with his companion and paused there to say in a tone of pressing entreaty:  “Only come and speak with my mother; you really must not leave like this.”