arius left him.

The next evening, Marius, returning from hunting to the villa just
before dusk, unwontedly thoughtful over prospects which his mind was
beginning to conjure up, to look at, and play with, as it were, was met
by a slave who said that the Lady Varia sent word that she wished to see
him on his return. Somewhat surprised at this, for he had scarcely seen
her, much less spoken with her, since his arrival from Londinium, he
followed the man to the door of her apartments. Here he passed a second
slave, a tall fellow with a shock of black, unkempt hair, who was
trimming a lamp near by. This one turned his head to watch him as he
entered, with fierce wolf eyes into which leaped sudden jealous
distrust. But a slave was a slave to Marius; and so heedless was he of
the man's presence, that later he could not have told whether or not he
had been there.

Just inside the door Marius's guide crossed his arms before his face,
bending low, and left him, as though at an order. Marius, again
surprised at this, stood and waited. The room, lofty and warm and
floored with exquisite tiling, seemed to overlook a garden, where dusk
was gathering fast. It was furnished sumptuously, and was filled with
flowers which stood in great jars of gorgeous Eastern coloring. Halfway
down its centre ran one of the dwarf walls so common in Roman rooms,
which was made to serve as the back of a low and cushioned couch on
either side of it. A lamp of wrought bronze stood near, and by its light
Marius saw that a figure was lying on the couch, with head thrown back
against the cushions and one white arm hanging over the side.

"Lady Varia?" Marius exclaimed. She did not answer, and he saw that she
seemed asleep. He went to the couch, walking softly, with a faint wonder
as to why she had sent for him. She lay with long lashes sweeping her
cheeks and her warm lips parted, in the careless abandon of a child,
infinitely graceful, full of allurement. The thought entered his mind
that it was a pose, a piece of pretty trickery. He bent down until his
lips all but touched her cheek and the perfume of her hair rose to him,
so that had she been feigning she must have given sign, or else been
better skilled in the gentle art of flirting than he believed. But she
slept on, unconscious, with slow, regular breathing, so still that he
could see the beat of her heart under the filmy stuff of her tunic.

And even as he watched her, so another, unseen, watched h