“You have been to the Didascalion?” “I am still there in the sixth class. I shall finish there next year; it will not be any too soon.” “What don’t you like then?” “Ah! if you only knew how hard to please the mistresses are. They make you begin the same lesson twenty-five times, and it is all about useless things which the men never desire. Then one tires oneself for nothing, and I do not like that. Come, have a fig; not that one, it is not ripe. I will show you a new way to eat them--look.” “I know it. It takes longer, but it is not a better way. I believe you are a good pupil.” “Oh! what I know I have learned by myself. The mistresses try to make out they are stronger than we are. They are more experienced, but they have not invented anything.” “Have you many lovers?” “They are all too old; it is inevitable. The young are so foolish! They only care for women of forty. I sometimes see one pass as good-looking as Eros, and you ought to see the woman he picks out--a hateful hippopotamus! It makes one turn pale. I hope I shall not live to be the age of those women; I should be ashamed to undress. That is why I am so glad that I am young. But let me kiss you. I like you very much.” Here the conversation took a turn, and Demetrios soon saw that his scruples were unnecessary in the case of such a well-informed young woman. “What is your name?” he asked her presently. “Melitta. Did you not see the name over the door?” “I did not look at it.” “You could see it in the room. It has been written on the walls. I shall soon have to have them repainted.” Demetrios raised his head. The four walls of the room were covered with inscriptions. “Well, that is very curious,” he said. “May I read them?” “Yes, if you like. I have no secrets.” He read them. The name of Melitta was there several times, coupled with various men’s names and strange designs. There were tender and comic phrases. Lovers detailed the charms of the little courtesan, or made jokes upon her. All that was not very interesting; but when he was near the end of his reading he gave a start of surprise. “What is this? What is it? Tell me.” “What? Where? What is the matter?” “Here. This name. Who wrote that?” His finger was pointing to the name of Chrysis. “Ah,” she replied, “I wrote that.” “But who is Chrysis?” “She is my great friend.” “I don’t doubt that. That is not what I am asking you. Which Chrysis is it? There are so many.” “Mine is the most beautiful Chrysis of Galilee.” “You know her, then! Tell me about her! Where was her home? Where does she live? Who is her lover? Tell me all about her.” He sat down upon the bed and took the girl upon his knees. “Are you in love with her?” she said. “What does it matter? Tell me what you know about her; I am anxious to hear.”