“By the deep-vested Graces, Nikander, but I think we have broken into a pretty dialogue. Would I had heard some of it.”
The boy, redder still, hid behind his father.
Nikander shook his head in whimsical despair.
“What am I to do with a daughter like that? I never know what she will do next. She’s perfectly good, I assure you. She only breaks rules like a colt.”
“She’s your image,” laughed Pindar. “Your own face faced you when she spoke. Ay, and your spirit, too. By Artemis, did you mark how she fled up the stairs with head held high?”
“She’s a twin, you know,” said Nikander. “The boy is more beautiful.”
“Ay, I know your Dryas. The coming beauty they say, and perhaps the coming singer.”
Nikander’s face flushed with pleasure.
“The lyrists tell me so,” he assented.