“Often and often,” boasted the boy. “When we would stop by the road to sup and pour wine to the blessed gods, then a slave would bring Pindar’s lyre. A fine old one it is, always fresh stringed. He would sweep it with his hand and the thing would tremble as if alive. Do you think my hand is like Pindar’s?” he asked, stretching out his right hand. Slender and brown it was, expressive as his face.
“No,” said the girl honestly, “but it is a player’s hand.”
“I’m going to be a poet some day,” ran on the boy.
“I wish I might be a poet,” said Theria.
“You! But you are a girl. For you will be the house and children and the loom.”
“I hate the house!” cried Theria.
“What! The home of your fathers? How can you?” The boy was shocked.
“Oh, I don’t mean the home. I mean the house walls that keep me in. Sometimes I want to scream and struggle as though I were tied down hand and foot.”
“But nothing ties you down.”