Eunoa opened her eyes in astonishment; she had never heard her mistress speak in so curt and imperious a tone.
When Maira entered her bed-room, there was a certain solemnity in her manner that attracted Xenocles’ attention. Stretching himself on the couch, he beckoned to her.
But, instead of taking her seat on the edge, Maira remained standing before him, gazing steadily into his face. Xenocles scarcely believed his eyes. It was the first time during the twenty years of their married life that his wife had not instantly done whatever he requested.
“Sit down,” he repeated, again pointing to the seat.
Maira did not seem to hear.
“I have evil tidings,” she said coldly. “A misfortune has happened to us during the night.”
“What is it? What is it?” cried the excitable little man, and pointing to the strip of papyrus she held in her hand, he asked: “Is this the misfortune?”
“It is from Clytie,” replied Maira, and read the contents in a tone which seemed to imply that the matter was no concern of hers.
At the words: “Forgive me, I must fly,” Xenocles started and, with a stiff movement, as though both his limbs had suddenly become one, he swung himself up from his reclining posture and put his feet on the floor so that he sat erect on the couch. He seemed to have been struck speechless, and his hands fumbled with his belt, which he had not yet buckled.
He was thinking of Clytie’s childhood, of her pretty, gentle face, her innocent caresses. His eyes filled with tears—he could not believe that she had gone.