another voice, less vulgarly accented, said:

'Never mind those petty profits, my Burbo. The girl's voice will be
wanted again soon at our rich friend's revels; and he pays, as thou
knowest, pretty high for his nightingales' tongues.

'Oh, I hope not--I trust not,' cried Nydia, trembling. 'I will beg from
sunrise to sunset, but send me not there.'

'And why?' asked the same voice.

'Because--because I am young, and delicately born, and the female
companions I meet there are not fit associates for one who--who...'

'Is a slave in the house of Burbo,' returned the voice ironically, and
with a coarse laugh.

The Thessalian put down the flowers, and, leaning her face on her hands,
wept silently.

Meanwhile, Glaucus sought the house of the beautiful Neapolitan. He
found Ione sitting amidst her attendants, who were at work around her.
Her harp stood at her side, for Ione herself was unusually idle, perhaps
unusually thoughtful, that day. He thought her even more beautiful by
the morning light and in her simple robe, than amidst the blazing lamps,
and decorated with the costly jewels of the previous night: not the less
so from a certain paleness that overspread her transparent hues--not the
less so from the blush that mounted over them when he approached.
Accustomed to flatter, flattery died upon his lips when he addressed
Ione. He felt it beneath her to utter the homage which every look