“Theria,” he said, “greet your brother at once or go to your room. Your whims are unbearable.”
“Theria,” began Dryas again. But at his urging voice her anger took flame.
“I won’t praise you!” she cried wildly. “You know the song is mine, mine. I made it myself.”
“Great gods!” laughed Lycophron. “Here’s a pother for you!”
“No pother at all,” spoke Dryas quickly. “Who’ll believe her?”
“Nobody, nobody, my son,” sounded Nikander’s deep voice. “Now, Theria, go! I shall punish you myself for this!”
Here Melantho lifted horrified hands. “What jealousy, Theria! Shame on you! Shame!”
Theria had already reached the stair-foot, but at this word she faced them again.
“I am not jealous, I can prove that I made it,” she said, her voice suddenly clear. “I can sing my song.”
As at sacrilege, Nikander answered: