“That makes no difference,” said the old peasant woman, joying in her authority. “It is against the law.”
Theria’s heart bounded with anger.
“How dare you mistrust me, woman? Have I not the good of the oracle at heart more than you? Go at once and fetch me Baltè.”
The house mistress bowed and went out. And presently the Pythian slave appeared, very timid, and eyeing her, secretly amused.
Theria looked hard at her.
“Go out,” she commanded. “How dare you enter my room when I have not sent for you?”
The woman withdrew but Theria was conscious that she lingered in the court.
Never in all her life had any one dressed Theria but Baltè. It was quite unthinkable that any one else should do it. Theria was a spoiled child in this.
Awkwardly she unpinned her white robe herself, folded it away, and donned her Pythia habit.
But anger is the arch destroyer of prayer. Theria could not pray now. Besides, she was mortally hungry.