His tunic, scarlet in color, is of the softest woollen fabric; below the girdle of buff leather, which is clasped in front by a fantastic device of shining gold, the skirt drops to the knee in folds heavy with embroidery of the same royal metal; a scarf, also woollen, and of mixed white and yellow, crosses his throat and falls trailing at his back; his arms and legs, where exposed, are white as ivory, and of the polish impossible except by perfect treatment with bath, oil, brushes, and pincers.
The dealer, keeping his seat, bends forward, and throws his hands up until they meet in front of him, palm downwards and fingers extended.
"What hast thou, this morning, O son of Paphos ?" says the young Greek, looking at the boxes rather than at the Cypriote.

"I am hungry.

What hast thou for breakfast ?" "Fruits from the Pedius--genuine--such as the singers of Antioch take of mornings to restore the waste of their voices," the dealer answers, in a querulous nasal tone.
"A fig, but not one of thy best, for the singers of Antioch!" says the Greek.

"Thou art a worshiper of Aphrodite, and so am I, as the myrtle I wear proves; therefore I tell thee their voices have the chill of a Caspian wind.

Seest thou this girdle ?--a gift of the mighty Salome--" "The king's sister!" exclaims the Cypriote, with another salaam.
"And of royal taste and divine judgment.