just picking up the
ostrich-feather fan that had slipped from Daphne's lap.

The performance was over.

Young slaves in gay garments, and nimble female servants with glittering
gold circlets round their upper arms and on their ankles, were passing
from couch to couch, and from one guest to another, offering
refreshments. Hermon had risen from his knees, and the wreath of bright
flowers again adorned his black curls. He held himself as proudly erect
as if the goddess of Victory herself had crowned him, while Althea was
reaping applause and thanks. Ledscha gazed past her and the others to
watch every movement of the sculptor.

It was scarcely the daughter of Archias who had detained Hermon, for he
made only a brief answer--Ledscha could not hear what it was--when she
accosted him pleasantly, to devote himself to Althea, and--this could be
perceived even at a distance--thank her with ardent devotion.

And now--now he even raised the hem of her peplos to his lips.

A scornful smile hovered around Ledscha's mouth; but Daphne's guests also
noticed this mark of homage--an unusual one in their circle--and young
Philotas, who had followed Daphne from Alexandria, cast a significant
glance at a man with a smooth, thin, birdlike face, whose hair was
already turning gray. His name was Proclus, and, as grammateus of the
Dionysian games and high priest of Apollo, he was one of the most
influential men in Alexandria, especially as he was one of the favoured
courtiers of Queen Arsinoe.

He had gone by her command to the Syrian court, had enjoyed on his
return, at Pelusium, with his travelling companion Althea, the
hospitality of Philippus, and accompanied the venerable officer to Tennis
in order to win him over to certain plans. In spite of his advanced age,
he still strove to gain the favour of fair women, and the sculptor's
excessive ardour had displeased him.

So he let his somewhat mocking glance wander from Althea to Hermon, and
called to the latter: "My congratulations, young master; but I need
scarcely remind you that Nike suffers no one--not even goodness and grace
personified--to take from her hand what it is her sole duty to bestow."

While speaking he adjusted the laurel on his own thin hair; but Thyone,
the wife of Philippus, answered eagerly: "If I were a young man like
Hermon, instead of an old woman, noble Proclus, I think the wreath which
Beauty bestows would render me scarcely less happy than stern Nike's
crow