The performance was over.

Young slaves in gay garments, and nimble female servants with glittering gold circlets round their upper arms and on their ankles, were passing from couch to couch, and from one guest to another, offering refreshments.  Hermon had risen from his knees, and the wreath of bright flowers again adorned his black curls.  He held himself as proudly erect as if the goddess of Victory herself had crowned him, while Althea was reaping applause and thanks.  Ledscha gazed past her and the others to watch every movement of the sculptor.

It was scarcely the daughter of Archias who had detained Hermon, for he made only a brief answer—­Ledscha could not hear what it was—­when she accosted him pleasantly, to devote himself to Althea, and—­this could be perceived even at a distance—­thank her with ardent devotion.

And now—­now he even raised the hem of her peplos to his lips.

A scornful smile hovered around Ledscha’s mouth; but Daphne’s guests also noticed this mark of homage—­an unusual one in their circle—­and young Philotas, who had followed Daphne from Alexandria, cast a significant glance at a man with a smooth, thin, birdlike face, whose hair was already turning gray.  His name was Proclus, and, as grammateus of the Dionysian games and high priest of Apollo, he was one of the most influential men in Alexandria, especially as he was one of the favoured courtiers of Queen Arsinoe.

He had gone by her command to the Syrian court, had enjoyed on his return, at Pelusium, with his travelling companion Althea, the hospitality of Philippus, and accompanied the venerable officer to Tennis in order to win him over to certain plans.  In spite of his advanced age, he still strove to gain the favour of fair women, and the sculptor’s excessive ardour had displeased him.

So he let his somewhat mocking glance wander from Althea to Hermon, and called to the latter:  “My congratulations, young master; but I need scarcely remind you that Nike suffers no one—­not even goodness and grace personified—­to take from her hand what it is her sole duty to bestow.”

While speaking he adjusted the laurel on his own thin hair; but Thyone, the wife of Philippus, answered eagerly:  “If I were a young man like Hermon, instead of an old woman, noble Proclus, I think the wreath which Beauty bestows would render me scarcely less happy than stern Nike’s crown of victory.”

While making this pleasant reply the matron’s wrinkled face wore an expression of such cordial kindness, and her deep voice was so winning in its melody, that Hermon forced himself to heed the glance of urgent warning Daphne cast at him, and leave the sharp retort that hovered on his lips unuttered.  Turning half to the grammateus, half to the matron, he merely said, in a cold, self-conscious tone, that Thyone was right.  In this gay circle, the wreath of bright flowers proffered by the hands of a beautiful woman was the dearest of all gifts, and he would know how to value it.