The little golden-haired girl from the chamber of artists beyond
skipped by her.
"Hast seen Demetrius?" she called back as she passed. "Demetrius, the
athlete, stupid!"
Laodice turned away from her.
"Nay, then," the girl declared; "if I have insulted you let me heal
over the wound with the best jest, yet! John hath written a sonnet on
Philadelphus' wife and our Lady Amaryllis is truing his meter for him.
Ha! Gods! What a place this is for a child to be brought up! I would
not give a denarius for my morals when I am grown. There's Demetrius!
Now for a laugh!"
She was gone.
Where was that ancient rigor of atmosphere in which she had been
reared? thought Laodice. Had it existed only in the shut house of
Costobarus? Was all the world wicked except that which was confined
within the four walls of her father's house? Could she survive long in
this unanimously bad environment? But she remembered Joseph of Pella,
the shepherd; even then his wholesomeness was not without its canker.
He was a Christian!
Philadelphus was at her side.
She flinched from him and would have fled, but he stopped her with a
sign.
"My lady objects to your presence in this house," he said. "You have
not made it worth my while to insist on your shelter here."
"Your lady," she said hotly, "is two-fold evilly engaged, then. She
has time to ruin you, while she furnishes John with all the
inspiration he would have for sonnets.
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