“If I had a lyre I’d play it, not hug it,” retorted Theria.
Here Medon came into the aula with sandals on. To Theria it was a thunder-clap. She watched him steadily as he crossed to them, then with loving gesture slipped her hand into his.
“But,” said the slave, “my darling is not going to-day. It’s Dryas who must go. Poor Dryas!”
“Oh, no: you didn’t understand,” she reasoned with him. “Father wants me to go.” She pushed back her curls with a nervous little gesture and looked brightly up at him.
Medon dreaded a battle with Theria. The child had a storm-like temper. To be sure it broke seldom, but it was always on some bright day like this and nearly always had to do with going out of the house—a privilege rare for little girls. Most girls did not expect to go out. Theria always expected it, like a boy, and fought for it like a boy, too. Something told him she was going to fight now. He must do his best.
“Medon will buy you a hoop in the market—a hoop, mind you, with bells—if you will be good.”
“I don’t want that.” How tight she held his hand and how black were the childish eyes gazing up at him. “I’ll tell you, Medon, you can give the hoop to Dryas. School will be hard for Dryas. It’s going to be so easy for me.”
“But, my dear little mistress, you cannot go. There are no girls at the school.”
Medon felt the hand tighten sharply in his. The child was looking off at a distance. Then with complete change she slipped her hand out of his.
“Yes, you and Dryas go,” she said.