“Ah! . . . Ha! . . . the mirror . . .”
“Come along!” repeated Myrto, losing patience.
“The mirror . . . it is stolen, stolen! Ah! haaa! I shall never laugh so much again if I live to be as old as Chronos. Stolen, stolen, the silver mirror!”
The singing-girl tried to drag her away, but Philotis had understood.
“Hi!” she cried to the others, waving her two arms. “Come here quickly! There is news! Bacchis’s mirror has been stolen!”
And all exclaimed:
“Papaië! Bacchis’s mirror!”
In an instant, thirty women crowded round the flute-girl:
“What is happening?”
“What?”