Dion, who, and he might, would have had Glaucon’s place, whispered to her, “You are not as other women, but sit among the Olympians.”
Myrina drank wine, and drank self-praise and lover’s praise, and laughed again, this time with loosened and golden throat. “Here, O Myrrhus, is the third and easy question!—What is wisdom?”
“Wisdom is to lift ourselves from ourselves.—And now, Myrina, having given gift for gift, I go on to the feast at the house of Callicles the sophist.”
Myrina, too, looked at the sun. “It is in the Glaucon quarter!” she cried to herself. Going homeward, she seemed to listen, but was not listening to those beside her. “Glaucon—Glaucon—Glaucon—Glaucon—”
With the last light upon the mountains came Glaucon. Much Athenian business had filled his day, but now he was here, white-robed, garlanded and bright-eyed, with arms that strained, with lips that pressed. Myrina’s arms strained back, Myrina’s lips pressed his lips. “I love you!” said Myrina. “I love you!”
They sat in a flower-decked room, and though Myrina had flute-girls playing in the distance, and though slaves came and went bringing dishes and wine, they heeded these not.
“I love you!”
“I love you!”
“I love you most!”
“No, I love you most!”