Ahai! so she had thought herself different, better! She was like all other silly women. No wonder the men gibed. Only for a moment had she been guilty, but it was such a vivid, unforgettable moment. The moon had shone so bright upon him, the youth had looked so impossibly beautiful. Fool! The youth was plainly mad. Never would she allow herself to see him again.
Wrathfully she gathered all the flowers at one sweep and flung them far out of the window. Theria had heard of physical love. She had heard of no other kind. How was she to understand this sudden placing of her upon a pedestal? How should she guess that the youth through the suffering of slavery, through the purity of his gratitude, had stumbled upon an emotion old as creation, beautiful as dawn, strong as life, which the Greeks had utterly quenched and set aside?
Next day, sure enough, a feast was preparing in the house. Theria watched fearfully. Was the Argive really coming among the other guests? She tried to keep out of her father’s way, but she had to face him at luncheon.
Nikander, where his family was concerned, was very frank and childlike. “Well, Theria,” he said, “what do you suppose has happened? A young man comes asking for your hand.” Theria’s heart thumped so that she had to stop eating.
“His name is Eëtíon.[2] He is from Argos, one of the handsomest youths I ever saw. What do you think of that, Daughter?”
[2] Note: pronounced A-e-teé-on.
“I do not know,” she managed to falter.
“My dear, why tremble?” smiled her father. “The youth does not concern you. But the fellow is curiously headlong. Of course I did not discuss dower with him. But he offered it. He said: ‘I want no dower. I have seen your daughter in a festival procession. Her beauty is enough without dower!’ Now in what procession could he have noticed you, Theria? I do not quite like it that he should have seen you.”
“I do not know,” she said, again bowing her head. She was in mortal fear lest he see her fear. But he turned to Melantho—