“You are too idle in the forest,” Lycabetta answered, “and so you are sent here to be apprenticed to my trade.”
Perpetua moved a little nearer to her, questioning her with eyes and speech.
“What is your trade?”
Lycabetta turned to the bronze image of Venus and held out her hands to it.
“The oldest in the world. We were busy before Babylon was built or Troy burned. We shall be busy till the world grows gray.”
Perpetua repeated her question.
“Speak plainly. What is your trade?”
Lycabetta answered her frankly.
“The trade of love. We sell smiles and kisses and sweet hours, and men buy them gladly, even at the price of their souls.”
“I know you now,” Perpetua said, crossing herself. “Though I dwell with innocence upon the heights, I am not ignorant of the world’s depths. I know you now, and God knows I pity you. Let me go.”