"Eryfile. She is a baker's wife." "A baker's wife!" answered the Radiant, making a grimace, "I don't like that." "I can't help it. It's the kind of people I know best. Eryfile's husband is not at home at present; he went to Megara. His wife is the prettiest woman who ever walked on Mother-Earth." "I am very anxious to see her." "One condition more, my Silver-arrowed, you must promise that you will use only means worthy of you, and that you will not act as would act such a ruffian as Ares, for instance, or even, speaking between ourselves, as acts our common father, the Cloud-gathering Zeus." "For whom do you take me?" asked Apollo. "Then all conditions are understood, and I can show you Eryfile." Both gods were immediately carried through the air from Pnyx, and in a few moments they were over a house situated not far from Stoa. The Argo-robber raised the whole roof with his powerful hand as easily as a woman cooking a dinner raises a cover from a saucepan, and pointing to a woman sitting in a store, closed from the street by a copper gate, said: "Look!" Apollo looked and was astonished. Never Attica--never the whole of Greece, produced a lovelier flower than was this woman. She sat by a table on which was a lighted lamp, and was writing something on marble tables. Her long drooping eyelashes threw a shadow on her cheeks, but from time to time she raised her head and her eyes, as though she were trying to remember what she had to write, and then one could see her beautiful eyes, so blue that compared with them the turquoise depths of the Archipelago would look pale and faded. Her face was white as the sea-foam, pink as the dawn, with purplish Syrian lips and waves of golden hair. She was beautiful, the most beautiful being on earth--beautiful as the dawn, as a flower, as light, as song! This was Eryfile. When she dropped her eyes she appeared quiet and sweet; when she lifted them, inspired. The Radiant's divine knees began to tremble; suddenly he leaned his head on Hermes' shoulder, and whispered: "Hermes, I love her! This one or none!" Hermes smiled ironically, and would have rubbed his hands for joy under cover of his robe if he had not held in his right hand the caduceus. In the mean while the golden-haired woman took a new tablet and began to write on it. Her divine lips were disclosed and her voice whispered; it was like the sound of Apollo's lyre. "The member of the Areopagus Melanocles for the bread for two months, forty drachmas and four obols; let us write in round numbers forty-six drachmas. By Athena! let us write fifty; my husband will be satisfied! Ah, that Melanocles! If you were not in a position to bother us about false weight, I never would give you credit. But we must keep peace with that locust." Apollo did not listen to the words. He was intoxicated with the woman's voice, the charm of her figure, and whispered: "This one or none!" The golden-haired woman spoke again, writing further: