Xanthe did not go directly down to the sea, but approached her uncle's house to seek Phaon with her eyes.
As she could not see him, either in the stables, or the walk lined with fig-trees trained upon espaliers beside the house, she turned quickly away, repressing out of pride her desire to call him.
On her way to the sea she met her uncle's high-shouldered slave. Xanthe stopped and questioned him.
Semestre had told no lie. Phaon had not yet returned from a nocturnal excursion, and for several days had not reached home until just before sunrise.
No, he was not the man to offer support to her sick father. He was looking for a wealthy heiress, and forgot his relatives for the sake of dissolute young men and worthless wenches.
This thought hurt her sorely, so sorely that she wanted to weep as she had done by the spring.
But she forced back her tears; not one wet her cheeks, yet it seemed as if her poor heart had obtained eyes to shed them.
The little knife in her hand reminded her of her task of cutting roses, and watching for the ship which was to bring her uncle's son from Messina.
If Leonax was what Semestre described him, she would not repel him like the other suitors, whom she had rejected with laughing lips.
Yes, she would become his wife, not only for her father's sake, but to punish Phaon.