“My dear Theria,” said Nikander, “there is much for you to do here at home. You have everything, why are you unhappy?” She bowed her head without answer. There was so much to say that she could say nothing at all. “Theria,” he went on kindly, “I must tell you that only yesterday by your mother’s advice I did something for you. I see now how necessary it was.” Her lips parted as if in fear. “I have offered you in marriage,” said Nikander, “to Timon for his eldest son Theras. Timon has accepted. I am delighted with the alliance and I shall have the betrothal very soon.” With a low cry the girl crouched upon the floor, clasping his knees. “Oh, no, Father, no,” she pleaded. “You are not so angry with me as that. Don’t send me away! Don’t send me away!” He took her hands gently and lifted her—put his arm about her pitifully trembling shoulders. “What a strange child. What a strange, foolish child. All maidens look forward to marriage. It is their right.” “But not I, Father, not I!” “You must do so. Of course it will be strange at first. Brides are often timid, but you are not lacking in courage. Theria, your constant dwelling upon thoughts which are for men makes you cold toward what is your business in life—which is marriage and childbearing. You are mature in things not for you and in all the rest an undeveloped child.” This brutal statement was a nearer reading of Theria’s character than Nikander himself guessed. An unevenness of development was hers—a kind of mental hobbledehoy which is not infrequent in high-bred youngsters. Nay, more than this: An actual shrinking purity was the concomitant of her poetic gift. Other girls of Delphi discussed the facts of marriage with primitive frankness and looked forward to marriage as the one event to break monotony. Theria never spoke of it, and thought of it almost with horror—the strange house, the strange man, the mysteries from which she hid her eyes. Shall we add to this the terrific pride of youth—that she held it a certainty that no family equalled the Nikanders? To mate even with another Delphian was a downward step. This pride was in her stubborn answer. “Father, I cannot—I cannot.” “Nonsense,” smiled Nikander, “of course you will. He is a good man—Timon’s son.” “Have I seen him?” “Daughter! Of course you have not.” She wrung her hands in sudden wildness. “I won’t marry,” she cried. “I won’t go away from the house I love to one I have never known. I won’t belong to Theras whom I have never seen. I will only belong to you, you, you!” “Theria, my dear child,” began Nikander. But she was quite beside herself. She stamped the floor with her foot. “I won’t marry Theras! I won’t! I won’t!” she raged. At the end of the interview Nikander brought out a small whip which was used for child slaves. With this he whipped his daughter. Greek fathers had this right even with grown sons, but Nikander had never used it.