Ilissos was absorbed in the story. The poet in him felt the drama, the theatre. Someone should tell these things to harp music by a fire in a banquet-hall or under the stars in Agoras’ moonlight-white arena. But that was an injustice to Meinze, for she was speaking only tragedy. Every word was a tiny knife.
“Well,” she went on, “he saw Van, and looked him up and down, then waved him over. Off goes Van like a little dog.” Here Meinze broke off. She clenched her fists. “I see him now, wavin’ at Van like he was some village i***t. Oh, I want to scream at him and shove him back in the boat and make him leave us alone. Oh, I should’ve, I should’ve’.”
Ilissos took her arm, ashamed of his thoughts about songs and banquets. “You didn’t know,” he said softly. “How could you?”
“Well, I sort of di
