Chrysis disengaged herself with great care, stepping over her companions, and getting down from the couch, held the door ajar.
“Who is it, Djala? Who is it?” she asked.
“It is Naukrates who wants to see you. I have told him you are not at liberty.”
“What nonsense! Certainly I am at liberty! Enter, Naukrates, I am in my room.”
And she went back to bed.
Naukrates remained for some time on the threshold, as if fearing to commit an indiscretion. The two music-girls opened their sleep-laden eyes and made efforts to tear themselves away from their dreams.
“Sit down,” said Chrysis. “There is no need for coquetry between us. I know that you do not come for me. What do you want of me?”
Naukrates was a philosopher of repute, who had been Bacchis’s lover for more than twenty years, and did not deceive her, more from indolence than fidelity. His grey hair was cut short, his beard pointed à la Demosthenes, and his moustache cropped so as not to hide his lips. He wore a large white garment made of simple wool with a plain stripe.
“I am the bearer of an invitation,” he said. “Bacchis is giving a dinner to-morrow, to be followed by a fête. We shall be seven, with you. Don’t fail to come.”