“No; don’t you be scared to death like Dryas.”
“You know I am not scared!” she said so indignantly that Lycophron patted her shoulder approvingly.
“There, there, Sis, I won’t remind Father. But, honestly, I do think it is a shame that he forgets to betroth you just because he is so busy in the Council.”
“I’m glad he forgets,” she said vehemently. “I’m glad he forgets.”
After a moment she asked with anxiety:
“But is Dryas really scared?”
“He doesn’t say so, but I can tell that he is. He turns white about the lips.”
“Oh, I am so sorry, so sorry,” she answered. The break up of the family front was more serious than she had supposed. “But,” she concluded, “Dryas will stand by Father whatever happens.”
For a week Theria kept away from her storeroom and its beloved window. Cruel, that the impudent stranger should deprive her of her refuge. The storeroom was her place of intimate solitude. It was saturated with her thought, her dreams, her songs. The little window and the lonely street—all were hers.