Therewith the conversation came to an end, and Basil, hating the face of man, stole away into solitude.
Entering his own house, he learnt that Marcian was within.

For a month they had not seen each other, Marcian having been absent on missions of the wonted double tenor; they met affectionately as ever, then Basil flung himself down, like one crushed by sudden calamity.
'What now ?' asked his friend, with a rallying rather than a sympathetic air.
'No matter,' Basil replied.

'You are weary of my troubles, and I can no longer talk of them.' 'What troubles?
The old story still?
I thought you had found solace ?' Basil looked an indignant wonder.

His friend, sitting on the couch beside him, continued in the same half-bantering tone: 'When were you last at the house of a certain disconsolate widow, on the Quirinal ?' 'What mean you ?' cried the other, starting up, with sudden fury in his eyes.

'Are you vowed with my enemies to drive me mad ?' 'Not I, dear Basil; but hear the truth.