e 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
crown of victory."

While making this pleasant reply the matron's wrinkled face wore an
expression of such cordial kindness, and her deep voice was so winning
in its melody, that Hermon forced himself to heed the glance of urgent
warning Daphne cast at him, and leave the sharp retort that hovered on
his lips unuttered. Turning half to the grammateus, half to the matron,
he merely said, in a cold, self-conscious tone, that Thyone was right.
In this gay circle, the wreath of bright flowers proffered by the hands
of a beautiful woman was the