Theria was sitting crooning happily to her child when he stepped over her high threshold as casually and unannounced as though he had come from next door. Theria came near fainting at such unlooked-for joy. Absence in those days was deathlike in its completeness and disconnection. It seemed to Theria as though her dear father had come from the dead.
Then with what happy tears and soft laughter did she lift up the baby Theria to show him. With what pride did she lead her father out into her town.
Eëtíon met them at the doorway. Then with what seriousness and pride did the two lead Nikander about the new streets, to the market place, to their pure Castalian spring, to their Akropolis. Here was the temple, Eëtíon’s own. It stood unfinished, without cella or roof, with distant Ætna and the violet horizon of sea glimpsing between the white new columns. It seemed a spirit thing, not yet quite of this earth. Indeed it was never to be other than a heavenly, unbelievable beauty.
In Eëtíon’s workshop stood his clay Apollo watching as with wistful, marvelling eyes while the craftsmen brought him to life in bronze. Beside it was another model at sight of which Nikander exclaimed aloud with pleasure.
“It is a Victory,” explained Eëtíon, “which I made after our battle with the Catanans.”
It was a slender elastic figure, winged, the accepted victory form. Like the Ladas model she was moving strongly forward, moving as it seemed into the wind which swept back her long draperies in lovely, free, yet simple lines. She held her victory trumpet but had forgotten to sound it. Her dreamy face seemed looking through some parting of the mists and she was walking straight into her vision. She had forgotten present victory in victories to be. The figure, the countenance, the clean-shaped, filleted head were Theria’s own.
“How did you ever capture her?” cried Nikander. “The very spirit of my Theria.”
“She stood so at the prow of the ship,” said Eëtíon happily. “Day after day, questioning, questioning always and so full of joy. I did not put my hand to the clay until she was complete in my mind.”
“Ah,” laughed Theria, “so that is the reason you looked at me so strangely and sometimes did not answer me. I thought it was because you loved me.”