"Tel," cried Lyaeus after a pause, "maybe I have found it. Maybe you are right. You should have been with me last night."
"What happened last night?" As a wave of bitter envy swept over him Telemachus saw for a moment the face of his mother Penelope, brows contracted with warning, white hand raised in admonition. For a fleeting second the memory of his quest brushed through the back of his mind. But Lyaeus was talking.
"Nothing much happened. There were a few things.... O this is wonderful." He waved a clenched fist about his head. "The finest people, Tel! You never saw such people, Tel. They gave me a tambourine. Here it is; wait a minute." He placed the bag he carried on his shoulder on top of a milestone and untied its mouth. When he pulled the tambourine out it was full of figs. "Look, pocket these. I taught her to write her name on the back; see, 'Pilar,' She didn't know how to write."
Telemachus involuntarily cleared his throat.
"It was the finest dive ... Part house, part cave. We all roared in and there was the funniest little girl ... Lot of other people, fat women, but my eyes were in a highly selective state. She was very skinny with enormous black eyes, doe's eyes, timid as a dog's. She had a fat pink puppy in her lap."
"But I meant something in line, movement, eternal, not that."
"There are very few gestures," said Lyaeus.
They walked along in silence.
"I am tired," said Lyaeus; "at least let's stop in here. I see a bush over the door."
"Why stop? We are nearly there."