Nika did not respond, but restlessly plucked the petals of a lovely oleander, and as she flung them to the floor murmured:
'Thus would I pluck her life—her life, and end it in nothingness.'
'What ails thee, girl? Art thou ill?'
'No; but impatient for revenge.'
'On whom?'
'On the slave Saronia, who stands yonder in the court, dressed in golden brown, looking like a dark fiend as she rests her head against the porphyry pillar that Scopas carved.'
'Wherein has she offended, Nika?'
'In this wise. Thou knowest, mother, I never liked her, and ever as I know her I like her less. And now she poisons with her charms the mind of Chios; not that I care for Chios, but why should such a scorpion stand between us, even if the obstruction be as thin as the mountain mist which flees before the first blush of day? Listen, mother. 'Twas but yesterday, at the great theatre, I sent Chios to bid her come to me. His lengthened stay, his silent mood when he returned, her haughty bearing, all told me another drama had been enacted outside the theatre to which I dare not be bidden. But I will hear of it. I will clearly understand it. She shall speak it again before us, and besides her own she shall act the part of Chios.'
'Do you believe this being is treacherous?'
'I do, mother.'