“Several months, girl; three, if not six.”
“And then?”
“Who looks so far into the future?”
She lowered her glance, and, as if yielding to the inevitable, answered: “What a fool I was! Who knows what the morrow may bring? Are we even sure whether, six months hence, we shall not hate, instead of loving, each other?”
She passed her hand across her brow as she spoke, exclaiming: “You said just now that only the present belonged to man. Then let us enjoy it as though every moment might be the last. By the light of the full moon to-night, the happiness which has been predicted to me must begin. After it, the orb between the horns of Astarte will become smaller; but when it fulls and wanes again, if you keep your promise and return, then, though they may curse and condemn me, I will come to your studio and grant what you ask. But which of the goddesses do you intend to model from me as a companion statue to the Demeter?”
“This time it can not be one of the immortelles,” he answered hesitatingly, “but a famous woman, an artist who succeeded in a competition in vanquishing even the august Athene.”
“So it is no goddess?” Ledscha asked in a disappointed tone.
“No, child, but the most skilful woman who ever plied the weaver’s shuttle.”
“And her name?”
“Arachne.”