humanity.

"Take warning by me. Do not, indeed, forget our past. Stay here as
long as you will. Touch lingeringly the hem of Athena's peplos. But
when your minds are strengthened, when your powers are matured, go
back to your own people and make them also, because you have dwelt
for a time in the home of Plato, look 'to the pattern that is laid
up in heaven for him who wills to see, and, seeing, so to plant his
dwelling.' Work for Rome. Let the memory of Athens be no cup of
eastern magic. Listen, rather, for her voice as worshippers at the
salt well on the Acropolis listen, when the south wind blows, for
the sound of the waves of the purging sea."

The rich, emotional voice ceased suddenly like the flood tide of
Northern seas. Paulus was not prepared for the swift transformation
of ardent speaker into observant host as Atticus turned with a
whispered order to the slave who stood behind him. He was shocked,
too, failing to perceive its note of defiant bitterness, by a laugh
from Lucian and his careless, "My felicitations, Atticus, on your
welding of dirge and exhortation into one epideictic oration!
Aulus," he added, looking across the table, "don't forget to make
a note of the prepositions the master used in burying Greece."

The sneer fortunately was almost on the instant covered up by Ptolemy,
who, as if awakened from a revery, turned toward his host. "Atticus,"
he said, "you have convinced me that I am right. Pedigree, wealth
and art, nations and civilisations and the destiny of men bring you
no happiness. I find myself at peace in the heavens. While you were
speaking I rivalled Alpheus here and beat out an epigram:

That I am mortal and a day my span
I know and own,
Yet when the circling ebb and flow I scan
Of stars thick-strewn,
No longer brush the earth my feet,
And I abide,
While God's own food ambrosial doth replete,
By Zeus's side."

Like a gust of wind, the unexpected poet might have swept the
conversation into his own ether, if at this juncture the doors had
not opened to admit a group of well known actors. There was a general
exclamation of surprise, special entertainments being almost unknown
at Atticus's dinners. The host turned smiling to his guests. "My
friends," he said, "I know you share my pride in the rare event of
Apuleius's presence. He is not as accustomed as we are to the grey
monotone of our own thoughts. Shall he go back to Carthage or Rome
to laugh at our vil