d the pride of woman has an hypocrisy which can deceive
the most penetrating, and shame the most astute. But Arbaces was no
less cautious not to recur to a subject which he felt it was most
politic to treat as of the lightest importance. He knew that by dwelling
much upon the fault of a rival, you only give him dignity in the eyes of
your mistress: the wisest plan is, neither loudly to hate, nor bitterly
to contemn; the wisest plan is to lower him by an indifference of tone,
as if you could not dream that he could be loved. Your safety is in
concealing the wound to your own pride, and imperceptibly alarming that
of the umpire, whose voice is fate! Such, in all times, will be the
policy of one who knows the science of the sex--it was now the
Egyptian's.

He recurred no more, then, to the presumption of Glaucus; he mentioned
his name, but not more often than that of Clodius or of Lepidus. He
affected to class them together as things of a low and ephemeral
species; as things wanting nothing of the butterfly, save its innocence
and its grace. Sometimes he slightly alluded to some invented debauch,
in which he declared them companions; sometimes he adverted to them as
the antipodes of those lofty and spiritual natures, to whose order that
of Ione belonged. Blinded alike by the pride of Ione, and, perhaps, by
his own, he dreamed not that she already loved; but he dreaded lest she
might have formed for Glaucus the first fluttering prepossessions that
lead to love. And, secretly, he ground his teeth in rage and jealousy,
when he reflected on the youth, the fascinations, and the brilliancy of
that formidable rival whom he pretended to undervalue.

It was on the fourth day from the date of the close of the previous
book, that Arbaces and Ione sat together.

'You wear your veil at home,' said the Egyptian; 'that is not fair to
those whom you honour with your friendship.'

'But to Arbaces,' answered Ione, who, indeed, had cast the veil over her
features to conceal eyes red with weeping--'to Arbaces, who looks only
to the mind, what matters it that the face is concealed?'

'I do look only to the mind,' replied the Egyptian: 'show me then your
face--for there I shall see it.'

'You grow gallant in the air of Pompeii,' said Ione, with a forced tone
of gaiety.

'Do you think, fair Ione, that it is only at Pompeii that I have learned
to value you?' The Egyptian's voice trembled--he paused for a moment,
and then resumed.