Porphyrius knew only too well that his sons would never have been absent from any races or games.  They certainly must have been among the spectators and have fallen victims to the sword of the slaughterer.  His mother and two noble sons were snatched from him in a day; and he would again have had recourse to poison as a refuge from all, if a dim ray of hope had not permitted him to believe in their escape.  But all the same he was sunk in despair, and behaved as though he had nothing on earth left to live for.  Gorgo tried to console him, encouraged his belief in her brothers’ possible safety, reminded him that it was the duty of a philosopher to bear the strokes of Fate with fortitude; but he would not listen to her, and only varied his lamentations with bursts of rage.

At last he said he wished to be alone and reminded Gorgo that she ought to go to Dada.  His daughter obeyed, but against her will; in spite of all that Demetrius had said in the young girl’s favor she felt a little shy of her, and in approaching her more closely she had something of the feeling of a fine lady who condescends to enter the squalid hovel of poverty.  But her father was right:  Dada was her guest and she must treat her with kindness.

Outside the door of the music-room she dried away her tears for her brothers, for her emotion seemed to her too sacred to be confessed to a creature who boldly defied the laws laid down by custom for the conduct of women.  From Dada’s appearance she felt sure that all those lofty ideas, which she herself had been taught to call “moral dignity” and “a yearning for the highest things,” must be quite foreign to this girl with whom her cousin had condescended to intrigue.  She felt herself immeasurably her superior; but it would be ungenerous to allow her to see this, and she spoke very kindly; but Dada answered timidly and formally.

“I am glad,” Gorgo began, “that accident brought you in our way;” and Dada replied hastily:  “I owe it to your father’s kindness, and not to accident.”

“Yes, he is very kind,” said Gorgo, ignoring Dada’s indignant tone.  “And the last few hours have brought him terrible sorrows.  You have heard, no doubt, that he has lost his mother; you knew her—­she had taken quite a fancy to you, I suppose you know.”

“Oh! forget it!” cried Dada.

“She was hard to win,” Gorgo went on, “but she liked you.  Do you not believe me?  You should have seen how carefully she chose the dress you have on at this minute, and matched the ornaments to wear with it.”

“Pray, pray say no more about it,” Dada begged.  “She is dead, and I have forgiven her—­but she thought badly, very badly of me.”

“It is very bad of you to speak so,” interrupted Gorgo, making no attempt to conceal her annoyance at the girl’s reply.  “She—­who is dead—­ deserves more gratitude for her liberality and kindness!”

Dada shook her head.