In the centre of Nikander’s as in every Greek house there was a fast-closed door. Behind this door lived the women. They might, when only the family was in the house, come through this door, but they had no business or occupation on its outer side. At the appearance of a guest the women must quickly disappear. This door was at once Theria’s greatest grief and greatest delight. Grief that it must constrain her at all. Delight in that she could steal through it and catch glimpses of her father’s guests. Often though she was punished for this Theria always did it. Who would not take punishment for a glimpse of Æschylus, Kimon, Parmenides, or Pindar! “Back to your room—quick, Daughter!” Nikander would command whenever he noticed her. But often Nikander would be absorbed in his guest, and the room would be confused with serving-slaves. Nikander would not even see Theria’s little figure crouched by a pillar. Of all the guests the Theban poet Pindar was the one whom Theria loved best. Indeed all children loved Pindar. Not a child in Delphi but would lift up eager hands to that radiant smile as Pindar passed. There was in him an almost aggressive joy. The same vitality which makes a child leap and run and shout—all this was in his adult nature. It shone out of the clear deeps which were his eyes and trembled on his full Greek lips. He seemed always just to have taken a deep breath as if joying in the very air about him. His rather large mouth and his nose both were well-built for breathing. Splendour was his—splendour of imagination. His whole being exulted in response to spiritual beauty unseen by other men. All Delphi adored him. They had a strangely spiritual custom concerning him. Wherever Pindar might be in bodily comings or goings, the keeper of the Apollo temple when closing the shining doors at sunset hour was wont to call aloud: “Let Pindar, the poet, go in to the supper of the god!” Theria was a very little girl when she first saw Pindar. She was awakened by a sweet commotion of music, and getting up from her bed she trotted down into the front aula. The fateful door had been left open and she stole through, a diminutive figure in her short chiton. She went direct to Pindar. The poet laid his lyre upon the table and lifted the child to his knee. “There, there; I awakened you, little one,” he said tenderly. “No,” she answered, “the music called me.” “Called you, did it? And so you had to come?” She did not answer but gazed up at him unwinking, her tiny hands folding and unfolding in her utter joy at being so near to him. She was unaware of the others sitting at the feast. “Where do you get it?” she asked. “Get what? The lyre? Oh, of the lyre-maker in Athens.” She shook her curls. “No, the song. Does it come out of the air?” “Perhaps so, little one. Apollo gives it, surely.”