'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 Vestal with the girdle of Venus.'

'What refined expressions!' said the umbra.

'A miracle!' cried Glaucus. 'Can we not see her?'

'I will take you there this evening, said Clodius; 'meanwhile...' added
he, once more rattling the dice.

'I am yours!' said the complaisant Glaucus. 'Pansa, turn your face!'