_“I can tell Bacchis that she may count on you?” he said._ “You are somewhat wanting in reverence,” he said; “but I do not by any means think you are wrong. My indignation was not real. There is something charming in the union of two young women, on condition that they both consent to remain feminine, keep their hair long, uncover their breasts, and refrain from arming themselves with adventitious instruments, as if they were illogically envious of the gross sex for which they profess such a pretty contempt. Yes, their liaison is remarkable because their caresses are entirely superficial, and the quality of their sensual satisfaction is all the more refined. They do not clasp one another in a violent embrace, they touch one another lightly in order to taste of the supreme joy. Their wedding-night is not defiled with blood. They are virgins, Chrysis. They are ignorant of the brutal action; this constitutes their superiority over Bathyllos, who maintains that he offers the equivalent, forgetting that you also, even in this sorry respect, could enter into competition with him. Human love is to be distinguished from the rut of animals only by two divine functions: the caress and the kiss. Now these are the only two functions known to the women in question. They have even brought them to perfection.” “Excellent,” said Chrysis in astonishment. “But then what have you to reproach me with?” “My grievance is that there are a hundred thousand of you. Already a great number of women only derive perfect pleasure from their own sex. Soon you will refuse to receive us altogether, even as a makeshift. It is from jealousy that I blame you.” At this point Naukrates considered that the conversation had lasted long enough, and he rose to his feet, simply. “I can tell Bacchis that she may count on you?” he said. “I will go,” answered Chrysis. The philosopher kissed her knees and slowly went out. Then she joined her hands together and spoke aloud though she was alone. “Bacchis . . . Bacchis . . . he comes from her house and he does not know! The mirror is still there, then! . . . Demetrios has forgotten me . . . If he has hesitated the first day, I am lost, he will do nothing. But is it possible that all is finished? Bacchis has other mirrors which she uses more often. Doubtless she does not know yet. Gods! Gods! no means of having news, and perhaps . . . Ah! Djala! Djala!” The slave-woman entered. “Give me my knuckle-bones,” said Chrysis. “I want to tell my own fortune.” She tossed the four little bones into the air. “Oh . . . Oh . . . Djala, look! the Aphrodite throw!” This was the name given to a very rare throw whereby all the knuckle-bones presented a different face. The odds against this combination were exactly thirty-five to one. It was the best throw in the game. Djala remarked coldly: “What did you ask for?”