“Yes; and I don’t ask which of you is to be the husband. I know that Myrto possesses everything necessary to create that illusion. You are fortunate, Rhodis, to have such a friend. They are rare, whatever people say.”
They reached the door, where Djala was sitting on the steps weaving a towel of flax. The slave-woman rose to allow them to pass, and then followed them.
The two flute-girls took off their simple clothing in an instant. They performed minute ablutions upon each other in a green marble bowl communicating with the bath. Then they rolled upon the bed.
Chrysis looked at them without seeing them. The words spoken by Demetrios, even the most trivial, ran in her memory unceasingly. She was not conscious of the presence of Djala, who silently untied and unwound her long saffron veil, unbuckled the girdle, took off the rings, the seals, the armlets, the silver serpents, the golden pins; but the gentle titillation of her hair falling over her shoulders woke her vaguely.
She asked for her mirror.
She was not conscious of the presence of Djala, who silently
untied and unwound her long saffron veil.
Was she beginning to feel afraid that she was not beautiful enough to keep this new lover—for keep him she must—after the mad exploits she had demanded of him? Or was it that, by a detailed examination of each one of her physical beauties, she wanted to calm her alarms and justify her confidence?
She brought the mirror close to every part of her body, touching each in succession. She appraised the whiteness of her skin, estimated its softness by long caresses, its warmth by embraces. She tested the fullness of her breasts, the firmness of her belly, the tension of her flesh. She measured her hair and considered its glossiness. She tried the strength of her regard, the expression of her mouth, the fire of her breath; and she bestowed a long, slow kiss along her naked arm from the region of the armpit down to the bend of the elbow.
