The beautiful dweller sat in a deep chair, her little feet on a carved
footstool, a silver-stringed lyre tumbled beside it. She was alone and
appeared desolate. When the tall figure of the sculptor cast a shadow
upon her she looked up with a little cry of delight.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "a god led thee hither to save me from the
solitude. It is a moody monster not catalogued in the list of
terrors." She thrust the lyre aside with her sandal and pushed the
footstool, only a little, away from her.

"Sit there," she commanded. Kenkenes obeyed willingly. He drew off
his coif and tossed it aside.

"Thou seest I am come in the garb of labor," he confessed.

"I see," she answered severely. "Am I no longer worthy the robe of
festivity?"

"Ah, Ta-meri, thou dost wrong me," he said. "Chide me, but impugn me
not. Nay, I am on my way to Tape. I was summoned hurriedly and am
already dismissed upon mine errand, but I could not use myself so ill
as to postpone my visit for eighteen days."

She jeered at him prettily.

"To hear thee one would think thou hadst been coming as often as
Nechutes."

"How often does Nechutes come?"