Beginning with the moment that the Maccabee first entered her hall,
Amaryllis struggled with a perplexity. Certain discrepancies in the
hastily concocted story which that stern compelling stranger who had
called himself Hesper of Ephesus had told had started into life a
doubt so feeble that it was little more than a sensation.
Love and its signs had been a lifelong study to her; she knew its
stubbornness; she was wise in the judgment of human nature to know
that love in this stranger was no light thing to be dislodged. And to
finish the sum of her perplexities, she felt in her own heart the
kindling of a sorrowful longing to be preferred by a spirit strong,
forceful and magnetic as was that of the man who had called himself
Hesper of Ephesus.
With the egotism of the courtezan she summarized her charms. Even
there were spirits in that fleshly land of Judea to whom the delicate
refinement of her beauty, the reserve of her bearing and the power of
her mentality had appealed more strongly than a mere opulence of
physical attraction. She had her ambitions; not the least of these was
to be loved by an understanding nature. The greater the congeniality,
the greater the attraction, she argued; but behold, was this iron
Hesper, the man of all force, to be dashed and shaken by the rich
loveliness of Laodice, who was simply a woman?
"Such attachments do not last," she argued hopefully. "Such
attachments make unfaithful husbands. They are monotonous and
wearisome. She is but a mirror giving back the blaze of the sun,
one-surfaced and blinding. It is the many lights of the diamond that
make it charming."
She had arrived at no definite resolution when she met Laodice in the
hall that led to the quarters of the artists, as the Greek went that
way for her day's observation of their work.
"What an unrefreshed face!" the Greek said softly, as the light from
the cancelli showed the weariness and distress that had begun to make
inroads on the animation of the girl's beauty. "No woman who would
preserve her loveliness should let her cares trouble her dreams."
"How am I to do that?" Laodice asked with a flare of scorn.
"Do I perceive in that a desire for advice or an explanation of a
situation?"
"Both."
Amaryllis smiled thoughtfully at the girl, while the light of sudden
intent appeared on her face.
"You are unhappy, my dear, through your prejudices," she began. "We
call convictions prejudices when they are other than our own beliefs.
By that sign, you shall know that I am going to take issue with you. I
am, perhaps, the ideal of that which you would not be. But no man will
say that my lot is not enviable."