“You can be satisfied with one another,” he calmly replied.
“Kiss mother,” Melitta said.
He did so, and Pythias kissed him on the mouth as they separated.
Demetrios went a little further still beneath the trees, while the courtesan turned her head to watch them. At last they reached the spot they sought, and Melitta said—
“Here it is.”
Chimairis was squatting on her left heel in a little turfy glade between two trees and a bush. She had beneath her a red rag, which was her sole remaining garment in the daytime, and on which she lay when the men passed. Demetrios looked at her with growing interest. She had the feverish look of some thin, dark women whose tawny bodies seem to be consumed by ever-present ardour. Her great lips, her eager gaze, her livid eyes, gave her a double expression—that of covetous sensuality and exhaustion. As Chimairis had sold everything—even her toilet instruments—her hair was in indescribable disorder, while the down upon her body gave her something of the appearance of a shameless and hairy savage.
Near her was a great stag, fastened to a tree by a gold chain which had once adorned her mistress’s breast.
“Chimairis,” Melitta said, “get up. Some one wants to speak to you.”