“No, but that is the more reason we should stand by him. We should think and act with him. Lycophron”—she caught the corner of his himation, twisting it in her fingers—“you could really go into the Council yourself if you wished. You are old enough. Your vote would help his.” “But I wouldn’t vote his way, Puss.” “Do talk with Father,” she pleaded. “He will make you understand. He talked of it with me” (she said it proudly). “How much rather would he talk with you. He would make it all clear.” “Now, Sis, it’s you that are butting into a wall. Father and I don’t agree in these matters. You’re a smart little girl, but don’t try to meddle in things too big for you. By the way, when are you to be betrothed?” She paled quickly and Lycophron laughed. Theria’s reluctance to marriage was a curious streak of idiocy in this quick-witted sister of his. Lycophron thought it comic. “Great Hermes, what a face you make!” “Father hasn’t said anything about betrothal, has he?” she queried. “Well, I won’t say whether he has or not,” he teased, “but I shall remind him. I met Theron the other day, ‘When am I going to get my beautiful wife?’ says he.” “Oh, Lycophron, please, please!” she begged, all in a tremble. “Don’t remind Father, do not tell him what that man——” “Why, Sis, you little fool, a betrothal is a fine festival. And you would be coming right down among the men. It would be the merriest time you ever had in your life—and you the centre of it all.” “Who would want a merry time,” she retorted, “when the Persian is coming to tear us to pieces?” “No; don’t you be scared to death like Dryas.” “You know I am not scared!” she said so indignantly that Lycophron patted her shoulder approvingly. “There, there, Sis, I won’t remind Father. But, honestly, I do think it is a shame that he forgets to betroth you just because he is so busy in the Council.” “I’m glad he forgets,” she said vehemently. “I’m glad he forgets.” After a moment she asked with anxiety: “But is Dryas really scared?” “He doesn’t say so, but I can tell that he is. He turns white about the lips.” “Oh, I am so sorry, so sorry,” she answered. The break up of the family front was more serious than she had supposed. “But,” she concluded, “Dryas will stand by Father whatever happens.” * * * * * For a week Theria kept away from her storeroom and its beloved window. Cruel, that the impudent stranger should deprive her of her refuge. The storeroom was her place of intimate solitude. It was saturated with her thought, her dreams, her songs. The little window and the lonely street—all were hers.