"No. A polite girl," Vespasian observed, "would try it on." Caenis obediently did so.

That pillar base was striking up cold through his clothes; he stood up. For a bad moment she thought he was already taking his leave.

"Titus, thank you!"

He was visibly surprised. "You accept my gift?"

"Certainly."

They both knew that with her obstinate streak she might not intend accepting anything else; she wondered if his spirits sank. Without exactly flirting, she found herself enjoying her sense of command.

As she admired the bangle, Caenis lifted her feet from the floor. She was sitting in a silly summer chair that hung like a cradle from a frame. Now she automatically stretched her toes and swung; when she slowed, Vespasian lent a helping hand.

"Welcome home!" she exclaimed belatedly, looking up. "Thank you for writing to me; I enjoyed your letters."

"Thank you too."

"My last to you has probably gone astray."

Nothing ruffled him. "Probably lie in the Cretan quaestors' work box for the next forty years, filed under ‘Too Difficult.' . . . Glad to see me back?"

"Mmm!" The chair spun slightly, so her robe brushed against him before he steadied the basketwork, then pushed the contraption straight again. Lulled by the methodical rhythm of the swing, Caenis murmured, "I have heard that the girls in Crete are famously attractive."

"The girls in Crete," returned Vespasian gravely, "are ravishing. But their fathers are famously fierce."

"I expect people manage."

"I believe people do." He pushed her chair slightly harder than before. "Of course you always get the odd romantic who prefers to save up his initiative for some clever brown eyes he left behind at home. . . . Antonia Caenis," he mused, perhaps changing the subject. "Caenis, in the dark with her shoes off—lovely feet!—Caenis, in a hanging chair. Very rash, young lady, some bad man may tip you out!"