bright like a bird’s, and her hands very small; she used them a great deal in talking, and they always impressed her hearers. Even now the children were looking at them rather than at her face, as though the story came from them. There was a great red cushion behind her, and she leant forward from it as if she were going to leap out of the picture, or so it seemed to Philylla, into that tremendous, obsessing future that they all kept at the back of their minds.
The two youngest children sat crouched beside her, listening hard. The baby girl was quite still except for her cheeks and lips sucking at her finger, and a rhythmical curving and straightening of her toes, as if some current of thick air were passing over them. The five-year-old boy had a hovering smile and his dark eyes looked far out, as though he were meditating some mischief—again for the future! Those two were like their father and grandmother, but the eldest, who was almost more than a child, who was nearly eight and would go to his class—if—if the classes were started again!—he was like his mother, with thick, silky-soft hair, lighter than his sunbrowned skin, and clear grey eyes, and lips that shut firmly over any secret. He saw Philylla coming in and smiled at her silently; they were great friends.
But it was his mother that Philylla turned to. There was almost twenty years between them, but yet the girl felt there was no separation for them, none of the natural aloofness between two generations. It had all flowered in this last six months; the Queen was more to her now than her own mother could ever be again, or her own sister for that matter. The thing had happened completely.
Agiatis was standing sideways to the others, with a piece of embroidery in her hands, the edge of a purple soldier’s cloak for her husband. She was still one of the most beautiful women in Sparta; perhaps it was partly this that made the twenty years seem such a small thing. Her hair, that Philylla loved to comb and plait when it was her turn, was almost covered by a close net of blue and silver cords. She wore the Dorian dress of plain wool, summer-bleached white, her own weaving. There were no ornaments at all; even the shoulder brooches were only silver, worked in a dullish pattern, and her ear-rings the same. Philylla admitted to herself dispassionately that Agiatis had very little eye for clothes, but then they didn’t interest her nowadays—why should they?—and it didn’t matter, for she was the right height and figure to look splendid in these simple things. Only: the child wondered for the hundredth time why they had ever called her Agiatis the Merry-minded. If one knew her well, of course—but just to see her and speak with her, it was the last thing one would say. Fifteen years ago she might have seemed very different, but surely not so different as all that! She stood there now, in her own house, looking at her own beautiful children; and yet she looked sad. Sad, but not minding it, Philylla thought again, and then suddenly jumped and shook herself, and ran into the court with her message.
The picture broke at once into movement and noise and the present, but Agiatis was smiling now, the special, very soft smile she had for Philylla, that deepened again into something even more essential when the child spoke of her husband and Panteus. ‘And I told him!’ she said, her eyes bright and cheeks pink with running, ‘about wanting to help. I think he was pleased.’
‘I’m sure he was,’ said the Queen; ‘there aren’t so many to say it. Not among the women, at least.’
‘No,’ said Philylla slowly, thinking of the other maids of honour, ‘they are silly, aren’t they. I don’t know why.’
The Queen smiled at her. ‘You will though, Philylla. When things turn simple, women have to give up much more than men. Because they live in shadow, by mystery.’
‘I see,’ said Philylla doubtfully, not seeing, ‘but they won’t be when I’m grown up, will they? I don’t like it!’ And unconsciously she moved further out towards the middle of the court, full into the winter sunlight.
It was not every day she could go out into the fields and be a Spartan in her own way. The next morning she had to be indoors, with the others, weaving. She did not like this much; for one thing Agiatis always wanted them all to sing the old weaving-songs while they worked, but none of them liked to except Philylla, and she had an uncertain ear and more uncertain voice; so she was never allowed to sing. They talked instead, the elder ones about love and clothes, and occasionally politics, the younger ones about food and lessons and games and one another. And both the sets had, of course, that particular source of interest or annoyance, Agiatis, the Queen. The thing she was trying to do now was to train them for the dances again: as if anyone wanted even to think about those horrible, dim gods now! Two or three of the older girls were talking about that now, under cover of their looms, all rather horrified. ‘What does she think the good of them is if they aren’t real!’ That was Deinicha, a pretty, spoilt girl of sixteen, with fluffy hair and her finger-nails pink and polished. ‘It’s not right. If she goes on, she may make them come real. And Artemis—’ ‘I know. Some of the little ones like pretending they’re doves or bears; they may make up some goddess of their own to fit the songs to, nothing like the old ones anyhow! But I can’t bear playing with these things. They’ve had too much power. And besides, if—if one has any feeling—one doesn’t look there for help!’ The other nodded and made a sign with her hand, something un-Greek enough. The Spartiate women imported their gods in the same ship with fine muslins from Egypt, or scents and hair-wash from Syria. At home in Hellas there were only charms, and little godlings for luck in love or housekeeping.
They went on to talk of their perennial grievance, the clothes Queen Agiatis made the girls about her wear, their own weaving even, as if there were no such things as trade and good money in Sparta and lovely stuff over-seas, patterned and delicate, for soft skins and subtle colouring. But she wouldn’t even let them have powder, let alone all the possible small hints they knew they could use so cleverly, the lengthened line, the different tinting, that gave mere nature the mystery and attraction of art. It was all very well for her, with her husband and children and no one daring to laugh at her whatever she chose to look like. But her poor maids of honour, wasting all their best years at this extraordinary Court, while their sisters and cousins were enjoying themselves, and getting lovers, and living a life that you could call life! Well, the only comfort was, it couldn’t last. Or … could it? One of the helot women came in, with a huge grin and her arms full. The girls all stopped and ran up to her or looked round the corners of their looms. ‘Who’s the lucky one?’ they said, and one or two blushed and giggled self-consciously. But the woman, with as nearly a wink as was consistent with their dignity as the Queen’s girls, went over to the little ones and dumped her things on the bench beside Philylla, who was so really surprised that some of the others thought she must be acting. ‘Oh!’ she said, ‘are you sure? It’s not my birthday! Did mother send them?’ ‘Oh yes!’ said the woman, chuckling, and nudged her. ‘There you are, my lamb!’—it was a tablet, stringed, and sealed with red—‘now you write something pretty back.’ But Philylla was more interested in the presents than the letter. There was a great bunch of violets, sweet ones, blue and white, mixed with pink sprigs of daphne, and a rush box of honey-cakes sprinkled with cinnamon, and a bunch of arrows. She looked at them for a minute—they were light, but real grown-up ones with bone points; and last of all, in a cage of withies, a smart and glossy magpie, long-tailed and bright-eyed, that hopped towards her. Now the point of this, as all the older girls knew, but Philylla didn’t, was that a magpie was the one fashionable present just now from admirer to admired. They were usually taught to say some special phrase, not always very proper. The others all crowded round. ‘Take him out, Philylla! What does he say? Pretty bird, then, pretty bird!’ The magpie was very tame and friendly and sat on Philylla’s shoulder as she stood there, stiff and pink with pleasure and some pride, but he didn’t say anything, only whistled, cocking his jolly head at them. ‘But who’s it from?’ they clamoured. ‘Who is he? Why haven’t you told us, sly thing?’ ‘But I don’t know,’ said Philylla, dreadfully confused, fingering the tablet. ‘Read it then,’ said Deinicha. ‘Read it aloud, there’s a love.’ They all tried to peep over her shoulder, and she couldn’t bear to open it there in the middle of them; she wanted to run away by herself. ‘But read it!’ they cried at her, so excited that they were
