“Oh! what I know I have learned by myself. The mistresses try to make out they are stronger than we are. They are more experienced, but they have not invented anything.”
“Have you many lovers?”
“They are all too old; it is inevitable. The young are so foolish! They only care for women of forty. I sometimes see one pass as good-looking as Eros, and you ought to see the woman he picks out—a hateful hippopotamus! It makes one turn pale. I hope I shall not live to be the age of those women; I should be ashamed to undress. That is why I am so glad that I am young. But let me kiss you. I like you very much.”
Here the conversation took a turn, and Demetrios soon saw that his scruples were unnecessary in the case of such a well-informed young woman.
“What is your name?” he asked her presently.
“Melitta. Did you not see the name over the door?”
“I did not look at it.”
“You could see it in the room. It has been written on the walls. I shall soon have to have them repainted.”
Demetrios raised his head. The four walls of the room were covered with inscriptions.
“Well, that is very curious,” he said. “May I read them?”