She leaned toward him, her lips quivering, very woman, veritable child.
“I would have to go away from Delphi. I would never see Delphi again! I would never see you again! Dear, dear Father, that would be like death!”
He put both arms about her and was not astonished when she began to sob as if from some great shock or strain.
“You will not command me to go,” she pleaded. “Do not command me to go.”
“My dear child! Of course not against your will. But do you not see the honour, the splendour of doing this thing? Of making a city which shall be your own, upon which you can stamp what character you will?”
“I am not great enough to stamp character upon a city. Oh, no, oh, no! Think if I should make some mistake which would harm it, harm the people for perhaps a hundred years. And, oh, I could never think of any city as my city except my Delphi—my Delphi,” she repeated with all the hereditary love, the life-long worship sounding in the word.
Nikander was utterly puzzled.
“Are you only a woman, after all?” he asked.
“Why, yes, Father, what should I be?” she asked with innocent stare.
“Don’t you want your freedom?”