Nikander’s attitude unconsciously affected Eëtíon. He, too, now that he faced his marriage, realized how sad a sacrifice he was asking of her who had set him free. He had hoped that Theria would speak to him from her window so that he could ask her of these things face to face. But this Theria was too loyal to do. She sent her messages by her father. “So soon will come our life-long happiness,” she said, “we must bear this parting now.” At last Eëtíon was in serious misery for the trials looming ahead. He sent question to Theria by Nikander. “Had she thought of all the future? Did she want to decide again?” Nikander came back laughing. “Never send me on such an errand again, young man,” he told him. “She was almost as abusive as old Tuchè herself. She said she had not supposed that you would so insult her. That if she were as great a fool as you seem to be she would retaliate by distrusting your love. But that she does not do. She trusts your love, and you by this time should trust hers.” Eëtíon laughed joyously. “Apollo bless her! she is as lovely in her anger as in everything else!” Upon which Nikander named him an Eros-infatuated youth. But the incident cleared the air. From that time Nikander trusted his daughter’s decision. So, Melantho having made ready the linens, garments, and embroideries she considered essential, Theria and Eëtíon were betrothed before witnesses, solemnly in the aula. For a few happy moments they stood together and touched hands, though Theria had to be veiled. The ceremony was more binding than the wedding which was to follow later. Theria returned to her room knowing that now she belonged to Eëtíon as his goods and chattels belonged, but her heart was singing for joy. It was at the betrothal feast, when it was too late for mending, that Eëtíon revealed his one defect. They were chatting after the meal, or rather sitting silent while Eëtíon talked. For none of the youths of Delphi had had such adventures as Eëtíon, by storm of ocean, by cruelty of pirates, deceit of merchants in the ports. As a captive he had seen practically all the far ports of the West. Eëtíon sat upright on his couch, too animated to recline, his dark eyes now brightening with some memory, now filling with terror or triumph. Near him was one of the many small tables of a Greek room. Upon this table had been left, no doubt by Kairos himself, the god of chance, a double handful of smooth clay. It had been brought that morning by some citizens from far away who wanted to establish a sale for it in Delphi. Nikander had pronounced it the finest in texture he had ever seen. Then it had been left here. Eëtíon idly picked it up as he talked, working it with his deft fingers. Gradually it became soft, malleable. Absently he shaped it into a thick pillar, then, as if in sudden decision, began to mould it. He ceased talking, forgot his guests entirely, quite unconscious that they were watching what he did.