'Never! As I tell thee, I am wedded to my art. I shall never wed again. Why should I, seeing I love it dearly, as strongly as yonder priesthood love their faith and are content? So am I.'
At this saying of Chios the beautiful mouth of the Roman girl was slightly agitated, and her hand closed tightly on an almond flower, and its petals fell to the ground.
Then came Lucius and his wife, and all joined in pleasant gossip. Varro spoke proudly of Rome, and Lucius of Britain, and the time sped on. The young noble left, but Chios remained.
Nika was ill at ease, her mind was a storm, and, throwing a mantle over her shoulders, she said playfully:
'Come, Chios; take me to the balcony, that we may breathe the fresh night air.'
She was impatient to get at the mind of the Greek. Quick-sighted, she had already read the mind of the Roman. What did she care? She would be bold.
'Chios, why didst thou say thou wilt never wed? Is it really so?'
'Yes, Nika, it is true.'
'Chios, we have known each other long, and have been more than friends. We have been like children of one mother! Thou hast ever spoken freely and kindly to me, and I would ask thee one question—one little question—that is all.'
'Say on, Nika.'