Crobyle!
Ioessa.”
They cried their names as he passed, and some added protestations of their ardent natures or proposed an abnormal vice. Demetrios followed the road. He was preparing to choose at a venture, according to his habit, when a little girl entirely dressed in blue leaned her head upon her shoulder and said to him softly, without rising:
“Is it quite out of the question?”
The novelty of this mode of address made him smile. He stopped.
“Open the door,” he said. “I choose you.”
The little girl gleefully jumped to her feet and gave two raps with the phallus-shaped knocker. The door was opened by an old slave woman.
“Gorgo,” said the little girl, “I have got somebody; quickly, get some cakes and Cretan wine, and make the bed.”
She turned round to Demetrios.
“You don’t want any satyrion?”