Demetrios opens them: they are _The Oineus_ of Chæremon, _The Return_ of Alexis, _The Mirror of Lais_ of Aristippos, _The Enchantress_, _The Cyclops_, the _Bucolics_ of Theocritos, _Œdipus at Colonos_, the _Odes_ of Sappho, and several other little works. Upon a pile of cushions, in the midst of this ideal library, there is a naked girl who utters no word. “Now,” murmurs Chrysis, drawing from a long golden coder a manuscript consisting of a single leaf, “here is the page of antique poesy that you never read alone without weeping.” The young man reads at a venture: [Greek: Hoi men ar’ ethrêneon, epi de stenachonto gynaikes. Têsin d’Andromachê leukôlenos êrche gooio, Hektoros androphonoio karê meta chersin echousa; Aner, ap’ aiônos neos ôleo, kadde me chêrên Leipeis en megaroisi; pais d’eti nêpios autôs, Hon tekomen sy t’egô te dysammoroi. . .] He stops, casting upon Chrysis a look of surprise and tenderness. “You?” he says. “You show me this?” “Ah! you have not seen everything. Follow me. Follow me quickly.” They open another door. The second chamber is square. It is lighted by a single window, through which is seen enframed all nature. In the midst, stands a wooden trestle bearing a lump of red clay, and in a corner, a naked girl lies upon a curved chair, and utters no word. “Here you will model Andromeda and Zagreus and the Horses of the Sun. As you will create them for yourself alone, you will break them in pieces before your death.” “It is the House of Felicity,” says Demetrios in a low voice. And he lets his forehead sink into his hands. But Chrysis opens another door. The third chamber is vast and round. It is lighted by a single window, through which is seen enframed the great expanse of blue sky. Its walls consist of gratings of bronze bars so disposed as to form lozenge-shaped interstices. Through them glides a music of flutes and pipes played to a doleful measure by invisible musicians. And against the far wall, upon a throne of green marble, sits a naked girl who utters no word. “Come! Come!” repeats Chrysis. They open another door. ill-065 The fourth chamber is low, sombre, hermetically closed, and triangular. Thick carpets and rugs array it so luxuriously from floor to roof that nudity is not astonished in it. Lovers can easily imagine that they have cast off their garments upon the walls in all directions. When the door is closed again, it is impossible to guess where it was. There is no window. It is a narrow world, outside the world. A few wisps of black hair hanging to the cushions shed tear-drops of perfumes. And this chamber is lighted by seven little myrrhine panes which colour diversely the incomprehensible light of seven subterranean lamps. “See,” explains the woman in an affectionate and tranquil tone, “there are three different beds in the three corners of _our_ chamber.” Demetrios does not answer. And he asks within himself: