et. And, at other
times, in the midst of her childish prattle, she would say what would
make him glance at her strangely, in a voice like hers, yet whose subtle
intonations were not like hers. Also, he had not found many women who
were at times as honestly regardless of him as though he had not been
there. With all her contrarieties he found her merry, full of a
primitive joy of life, touched only at moments with a haunting mystery
which to his mind but added to her charm. Her laughter bubbled over as
water from a spring; she was careless, thought-free, light-hearted. For
it is only those who remember nothing that regret nothing; and Varia had
neither remembrance nor what it brings.

When he mounted and rode for Londinium that afternoon it was with the
full determination to despatch his business as quickly as might be and
return. He told himself amusedly that he had been singed too often, by
too many flames, to care for the feeble light of one broken lamp. This
was quite true. But also he acknowledged that when other lamps were
wanting, a broken one might answer for an hour.

II

That night the sun went down in angry crimson that ate like fire through
the sullen heart of clouds banked low along the horizon. In Varia's
garden the shrill insect voices were hushed; the trees drooped their
leaves motionless. It was a hot and breathless night, when thunder
muttered distantly and vague lightnings played hide-and-seek among the
clouds, and the earth was still as an animal that crouches waiting for a
blow.

Eudemius entered his room shortly before midnight, while the storm
menaced and would not break. His thoughts still had their way with him,
and they were none too happy thoughts. By the open window stood a tall
standard of wrought bronze, from the arms of which seven lamps swung by
chains, their flames flaring in the faint hot breeze which entered;
otherwise the room was dark. Eudemius drew a light couch near the window
and stretched himself upon it, slowly, like one worn out by weariness
and pain. The lamplight fell upon his face, and showed it less of a
mask, more unguarded, grim and hollow-cheeked, stamped with the seal of
suffering. A slave entered, without noise, and placed on a stand a bowl
of dewy fruit, a silver pitcher of wine, and a tall cup of the exquisite
Samian ware, rose-pink, thin as a fragile egg shell. In the dim light it
glowed like a ruby; Eudemius glanced at it with a faint pleasure in its
beauty.