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.

“No,” she said firmly.  “I am grateful, even for the smallest kindness; I have not often met with disinterested generosity.  But she had an end in view—­I must say it once for all.  She wanted to make use of me to bring shame on Marcus and grief on his mother.  You surely must know it; for why should you have thought me too vile to sing with you if you did not believe that I was a good-for-nothing hussy, and quite ready to do your dead grandmother’s bidding?  Everybody, of course, looked down upon us all and thought we must be wicked because we were singers; but you knew better; you made a distinction; for you invited Agne to come to your house and sing with you.—­No, unless you wish to insult me, say no more about my owing the dead lady a debt of gratitude!”

Gorgo’s eyes fell; but presently she looked up again and said: