Though her honor was as stainless as the breast of a swan—­and he had no reason to doubt it—­she would still be classed with Aspasia and other women whose guests sought more than songs and agreeable conversations.  The gifts with which the gods had so lavishly endowed her had already been shared with too many to permit him, the last scion of a noble Macedonian house, to think of leading her, as mistress, to the palace whose erection he had so carefully and successfully planned with Gorgias.

Surely it lacked nothing save the gracious rule of a mistress.

But if she should consent to become his without the blessing of Hymen?  No.

He could not thus dishonor the granddaughter of Didymus, the man who had been his father’s revered teacher, a woman whom he had always rejoiced that, spite of the gay freedom with which she received so many admirers, he could still esteem.  He would not do so, though his friends would have greeted such scruples with a smile of superiority.  Who revered the sacredness of marriage in a city whose queen was openly living for the second time with the husband of another?  Dion himself had formed many a brief connection, but for that very reason he could not place a woman like Barine on the same footing with those whose love he had perhaps owed solely to his wealth.  He had never lacked courage and resolution, but he felt that this time he would have to resist a power with which he had never coped.

That accursed face!  Again and again it rose before his mental vision, smiling and beckoning so sweetly that the day must come when the yearning to realize the dream would conquer all opposition.  If he remained near her he would inevitably do what he might afterwards regret, and therefore he would fain have offered a sacrifice to Peitho to induce her to enhance Archibius’s powers of persuasion and induce Barine to leave Alexandria.  It would be hard for him to part from her, yet much would be gained if she went into the country.  Between the present and the distant period of a second meeting lay respite from peril, and perhaps the possibility of victory.  Dion did not recognize himself.  He seemed as unstable as a swaying reed, because he had conquered his wish to re-enter old Didymus’s house and encourage him, and passed on to his own home.  But he would probably have found Barine still with her grandfather, and he would not meet her, though every fibre of his being longed for her face, her voice, and a word of gratitude from her beloved lips.  Instead of joy, he was filled with the sense of dissatisfaction which overpowers a man standing at a crossing in the roads, who sees before him three goals, yet can be fully content with neither.

The Street of the King, along which he suffered himself to be carried by the excited throng, ran between the sea and the Theatre of Dionysus.  The thought darted through his mind that his friend the architect desired to erect the luckless statues of the royal lovers in front of this stately building.  He would divert his thoughts by examining the site which Gorgias had chosen.