The grotesque nature of the request, and the passion with which it was urged, took Zoe aback. “But, Kalliopé, that is rather a foolish wish, isn’t it?” she asked kindly. “Wouldn’t you rather have something real, that you could keep and show, and take away with you, when you go?”
The girl rose to her feet, her eyes heavy with tears. “I knew it was too much. I have no other wish, lady. Give me what you will.”
“Oh, let her do it, Zoe!” cried Wylie sharply.
“I will bring Eirene to dinner to meet her,” said Maurice.
“Let her do it, Princess,” said Armitage. “She deserves it.”
“Of course you shall do it, Kalliopé, if you really wish it,” said Zoe, her momentary hesitation overborne. “I will lend you one of my gowns—you shall choose whichever you like—and I will do your hair for you myself. I won’t trust even Linton. There! will that please you?”
“Oh, lady mine, you give as a king gives—with both hands full,” cried Danaë, with a half-sob, as she knelt again and laid Zoe’s hand on her head. “Never, never will I forget your goodness to me!” and she burst into tears.
“She is tired out,” said Armitage—rather to Zoe’s surprise when she thought about it afterwards. “Better let her have a good rest, Princess. Must have been pretty wearing—hiding away all yesterday and not knowing whether we should come back successful or not,” he observed to the others, when Zoe had led the sobbing girl out of the room.
No one saw anything more of Kalliopé until the evening, when Linton, divided between gratitude for her achievement and acute disapproval of the method of its reward, woke her that she might choose her gown. To the maid’s indignation and Zoe’s amusement, she picked out unhesitatingly the most magnificent thing in the wardrobe, a Parisian creation of glittering golden tissue which Zoe had worn at the court ball that formed the culminating point of the series of splendid festivities before the departure of the allied fleets from Therma, by which Prince Romanos had signalised his own election and the wedding of his rival’s sister. Linton almost wept when she was bidden to alter the hooks a little to allow for the Greek girl’s classic development of figure, and Zoe was glad she should be spared the further pang of seeing her mistress acting hairdresser to this upstart. But when the thick blue-black locks, still disconcertingly short on one side, were ready for manipulation, Danaë turned suddenly, and took the comb out of Zoe’s hand.
“Lady, I must tell you—perhaps you will not think me worthy of all this honour when you have heard—I have no cousin. It was I who put on boy’s clothes and went with Milordo yesterday to find the Lord Harold.”