“There is just the faintest perceptible tinge of the Archipelago in your accent,” affirmed Eméraude, authoritatively. “This is your first visit to Athens?”
“My first.”
“Oh, are you not happy to be here?” carolled Andromache. “Athens—ah! it is so lovely. I could not leave it.”
“Tell us of your life in Tenos,” said Eméraude, taking up the dominant melody of the concerto, and at once the chorus of followers pressed their captain’s demand with an inarticulate cry of accentuated agreement.
“It is very simple. I read and walk with my father, and when not thus occupied, I help Annunziata in housework or I write letters for the villagers.”
“Annunziata! That is a pretty name. Italian?”
“She is Greek, of remotely Italian origin.”
“And why do you write letters for the villagers?” asked Sappho. “Can they not write themselves?”
“None of the women in the villages of Lutra, Xinara, or Mousoulou can write but myself.”