"Yes, very often."

"He who has loved often," answered Glaucus, "has loved never."

"Art thou, then, soberly and earnestly in love? Hast thou that feeling
which the poets describe--a feeling which makes us neglect our suppers,
forswear the theatre, and write elegies? I should never have thought it.
You dissemble well."

"I am not far gone enough for that," returned Glaucus, smiling. "In
fact, I am not in love; but I could be if there but be occasion to see
the object."

"Shall I guess the object? Is it not Diomed's daughter? She adores you,
and does not affect to conceal it. She is both handsome and rich. She
will bind the door-post 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
Naples, a city utterly to my own heart. 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