“Yes, Father, I was never so sure as to-day,” she answered him.
He took Baltè aside.
“What is it? Her eyes?” he asked anxiously. “It is almost a fatal look. Is she well?”
“Yes, Master,” said Baltè. “But Master must remember that she is leaving her home. That is awesome for a maid.”
“No doubt; yes, indeed,” he agreed.
He went to his own room and brought forth a cup of his most delicate wine.
“I want roses in your cheeks this morning, Theria,” he said as he gave it to her. But the roses came before she drank.
For as she took the cup she noted its picture—the same that was on the cup that she had broken—Athena bestowing upon a worshipper—the same delicate sureness of drawing—unmistakable!
“My dear, you are spilling the wine,” admonished Nikander, steadying her trembling hand.