"And it was thou singing?" she asked.
"It was I—and Pentaur; mine the voice; Pentaur's the song."
"Together ye have wrought an eloquent harmony, but such a voice as thine would gild the pale effort of the poorest words," she said earnestly. "What dost thou with thy voice?"
"Once I won me a pretty compliment with it," he said softly, bending his head to look at her. She flushed and her eyes fell.
"Nay, it is but my pastime and at the command of my friends," he continued. "See. This is what has made me sing."
He unslung his wallet and took out of it a statuette of creamy chalk.
"Thus far has the Athor of the hills progressed." He put it into her hands for examination. The face was complete, the minute features as perfect as life, the plaits of long hair and all the figure exquisitely copied and shaped. The pedestal was yet in rough block. Rachel inspected it, wondering. Finally she looked up at him with praise in her eyes.
"Dost thou forgive me?" he asked.
"It is for me to ask thy forgiveness," she answered. "So we be equally indebted and therefore not in debt."
"Not so. I know the joy of creating uncramped, and the joy of copying such a model far outweighs any small delight thy little vanity may have experienced. Thy vanity? Hast thou any vanity?"