“Did you see the women?” he shouted. “By the gods, I could hardly get home for them. Free at last—that’s what they are, havin’ the time of their lives. Dionysos is only an excuse. Hey, Theria, you are always wanting to get out. Why don’t you join?”
Lycophron did not see his father who had just come down the stair.
“Lycophron,” said the father sternly, “how do you dare such insolence? Let me never hear such from you again.”
And Lycophron disappeared more suddenly than he had come.
Nikander drew near the fire, absently warming his hands. Even at this early time he was disturbed over his eldest son.
“Are they gone?” queried the little girl.
“The Bacchantes? Yes, my child. As I came up the street I saw far up on the mountain their Bacchic fires gleaming through the dusk. It is cold for the night of Bromios.”
Theria knew of what he was thinking—a little great-great-aunt of hers who had died on a night like this, in the cold of the Parnassian rocks. A tiny room next to Theria’s own had belonged to her and she was said to visit it on Bromios night, a white, chattering figure trying in vain to warm herself amid the purple covering of the couch.
Theria stole to her father’s side, slipped her hand In his, and drew him down to whisper:
“Father, must I be a Bacchante some day?”