“Here are the books you love,” says Chrysis. “There are no others.”
Demetrios opens them: they are The Oineus of Chæremon, The Return of Alexis, The Mirror of Lais of Aristippos, The Enchantress, The Cyclops, the Bucolics of Theocritos, Œdipus at Colonos, the Odes of Sappho, and several other little works. Upon a pile of cushions, in the midst of this ideal library, there is a naked girl who utters no word.
“Now,” murmurs Chrysis, drawing from a long golden coder a manuscript consisting of a single leaf, “here is the page of antique poesy that you never read alone without weeping.”
The young man reads at a venture:
[Greek: Hoi men ar’ ethrêneon, epi de stenachonto gynaikes.
Têsin d’Andromachê leukôlenos êrche gooio,
Hektoros androphonoio karê meta chersin echousa;
Aner, ap’ aiônos neos ôleo, kadde me chêrên
Leipeis en megaroisi; pais d’eti nêpios autôs,
Hon tekomen sy t’egô te dysammoroi. . .]
He stops, casting upon Chrysis a look of surprise and tenderness.
“You?” he says. “You show me this?”
“Ah! you have not seen everything. Follow me. Follow me quickly.”
They open another door.
The second chamber is square. It is lighted by a single window, through which is seen enframed all nature. In the midst, stands a wooden trestle bearing a lump of red clay, and in a corner, a naked girl lies upon a curved chair, and utters no word.