"Well?"

"The hour is approaching when I may hope to repay the beneficent deeds,
which, at various times, you have done to my interior. My mother will
to-morrow morning, set before you that dish of cabbage. It could not be
done sooner, because the only perfect sausage-maker, the very king of his
trade, prepares these savory cylinders only once a week. A few hours ago
he completed the making of the sausages, and to-morrow morning my mother
will warm up for our breakfasts the noble mess, which she is preparing
for us this evening--for, as I have told you, it is in its warmed-up
state that it is the ideal of its kind. What will follow by way of
sweets we shall owe again to my mother's art; but the cheering and
invigorating element--I mean the wine that I drives dull care away, we
owe to my sister."

"I will come," said Pontius, "if my guest leaves me an hour free, and I
shall enjoy the excellent dish. But what does a gay bird like you know
of dull care?"

"The words fit into the metre," replied Pollux. "I inherit from my
father--who, when he is not gate-keeping, sings and recites--
a troublesome tendency whenever anything incites me to drift into
rhythm."

"But to-day you have been more silent than usual, and yet you seemed to
me to be extraordinarily content. Not your face only, but your whole
length--a good measure--from the sole of your foot to the crown of your
head was like a brimming cask of satisfaction."