“Lysander has other plans, and Phaon’s father is seeking an heiress for his son in Messina.”

“But surely not for the youth’s happiness, nor do I come to speak to you in Protarch’s name.”

“So you invented the little plan yourself—­I am afraid without success, for I’ve already told you that my master has other views.”

“Then try to win him to our side—­no, not only to us, but to do what is best for the prosperity of this house.”

“Not for this house; only for yourselves.  Your plan doesn’t please me.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t wish what you desire.”

“‘I don’t wish;’ that’s a woman’s most convincing reason.

“It is, for at least I desire nothing I haven’t carefully considered.  And you know Alciphron, in Syracuse, our master’s oldest brother, did not ask for the heiress, who probably seemed to him too insignificant for his own family, but wanted our girl for his son Leonax.  We joyfully gave our consent, and, within a few days, perhaps to-morrow, the suitor will come from Messina with your master to see his bride.”

“Still, I stick to it:  your Xanthe belongs to our Phaon, and, if you would act according to Dionysius’s wishes, like fair-minded people—­”

“Isn’t Alciphron—­the best and wisest of men—­also Dionysius’s child?  I would give his first-born, rather than any one else, this fruitful soil, and, when the rich father’s favorite, when Leonax once rules here by Xanthe’s side, there’ll be no lack of means to rebuild the platform and renew a few marble benches.”

Angered by these words, the old man indignantly exclaimed: 

“You add mockery to wrong.  We know the truth.  To please Alciphron, your foster-child, you would make us all beggars.  If Lysander gives his daughter to Leonax it will be your work, yours alone, and we will—­”

Semestre did not allow herself to be intimidated, but, angrily raising her myrtle-staff, interrupted Jason by exclaiming in a loud, tremulous voice: 

You are right.  This old heart clings to Alciphron, and throbs more quickly at the mere mention of its darling’s name; but verily you have done little to win our affection.  Last autumn the harvest of new wine was more abundant than we expected.  We lacked skins, and when we asked you to help us with yours—­”

“We said no, because we ourselves did not know what to do with the harvest.”

“And who shamefully killed my gray cat?”

“It entered Phaon’s dove-cote and killed the young of his best pair of cropper pigeons.”

“It was a marten, not the good, kind creature.  You are unfriendly in all your acts, for when our brown hen flew over to you yesterday she was driven away with stones.  Did Phaon mistake her for a vulture with sharp beak and powerful talons?”

“A maid-servant drove her away, because, since your master has been ill and no longer able to attend to business, your poultry daily feeds upon our barley.”