"And you saw him?"
Iréné was bending over her breathlessly.
A fearful agitation tormented Lydia. Must she indeed renew the anguish of that hour—nay, treble it, by laying it bare to all the world? She could have told it to Iréné, but to tell it to her as a vindication of herself would involve the telling of it to the Mother Superior and to the rest. And who would believe that she had not seen or spoken to Chairo, that far from seeing him, she had crouched in an adjoining room with her fingers at her ears in agony lest she should hear and lest she should not hear?
She remained silent, with her head bowed over the offending sheet.
"You must tell me," Iréné pleaded; "I need not tell it to any one—at least I think I need not," added she, hesitating, "but I know you have done no wrong; you must clear yourself, Lydia; for the love of the goddess, tell me."
"For the love of the goddess," repeated Lydia slowly; she paused a moment, and then, mistress of herself again, she said:
"I neither saw Chairo nor spoke to him. You will believe this, but who else will?"
"Your word is enough for me," answered Iréné, "and I shall make it enough for them all."
The women arose and embraced each other, then Lydia said:
"Too much has been already said about the most secret as well as the most sacred matters of a woman's life. It belongs to us women to preserve the dignity that we derive from Demeter, and that we owe her. I shall say no more on this matter. Am I not right?"