Lydia heard in spite of herself Neaera's cooing treble and the rich vibrating notes of Chairo's voice; she heard them laugh once, and then there came what seemed to be a silence that was terrible to her. Later, the voices resumed again. She passed a half hour of anguish, striving to listen and striving not to hear, and during that half hour she thought she heard the voices in the adjoining room pass through every gamut of emotion; they were sometimes raised as though each was striving to outdo the other, then they would sink into silence again. Would it never come to an end—this interview between the man she loved and a woman she despised? At last she heard a door close; she removed her hands from her head and tried to look composed.
Neaera came to her with her cheeks flushed.
"Did you hear anything?" asked she.
Lydia arose.
"I have been here too long," said Lydia. "You have nothing else to say, I think," and she moved out of the parlor into the study and was moving out of the study into the hall when Neaera stopped her, and said:
"You are not mistaking Chairo's visit, are you?" There was the prettiest little dimple in Neaera's cheek as she said this. "Nothing but politics," she added, and the dimple deepened.
"Good-by," said Lydia, without holding out her hand.
Neaera burst out now into a little laugh, for Lydia had passed her and was at the door.
"Nothing but politics," laughed Neaera, as Lydia shut the door behind her.