Heliodora--?'

'You have not heard perhaps that her husband is dead?'

'The Prefect dead?' exclaimed Basil.

'Three weeks ago.--Rather suddenly--after supper. An
indigestion, no doubt.'

Marcian spoke with peculiar dryness, averting his eyes from the
listener. Upon Basil's face came a deep flush; he took out the
folded paper again, and held it at arm's length.

'You mean--? You think--?' he stammered.

'About women I think not at all,' said the other, 'as you well know.
There is talk, talk--what care I?'

Basil tore the letter open. It contained a lock of raven-black hair,
tied with gold thread, and on the paper was written, in Greek, 'I am
free.' Again his cheek flushed; he crushed paper and hair together
in his hand.

'Let us never again speak of her,' he exclaimed, moving away from
the spot. 'Before I left Rome, I told you that I would gladly see
her no more, and you smiled dubiously. Believe me now. I abhor the
thought of her. If she ask you for my reply, repeat those words.'

'Nay, dear my lord, in that I will beg to be excused,' replied
Marcian with his melancholy smile.