She slowly and wearily entered the sitting-room, where her father was by this time waiting for her and his water. He was accustomed to have it regularly at the same hour, and as Selene was absent longer than usual, he could think of no better way of filling up the time than by grumbling and scolding to himself; when, at last, his daughter appeared on the threshold, he at once perceived that she had no jug, and said crossly:
Selene shook her head, sank into a seat, and began to cry softly.
“You should take better care of such expensive things,” scolded her father. “You are always complaining of want of money, and at the same time you break half our belongings.”
“I was thrown down,” answered Selene, drying her eyes.
“Thrown down! by whom?” asked the steward, slowly rising.
“By the architect’s big dog--the architect who came last night from Rome, and to whom we gave that meat and salt in the middle of the night. He slept here, at Lochias.”
“And he set his clog on my child!” shouted Keraunus, with an angry glare.
“The hound was alone in the passage when I went there.”
“No, but it pulled me down, and stood over me, and gnashed its teeth--oh! it was horrible.”
“The cursed, vagabond scoundrel!” growled the steward, “I will teach him how to behave in a strange house!”
“Let him be,” said Selene, as she saw her father about to don the saffron cloak.
“What is done cannot be undone, and if quarrels and dissentions come of it, it will make you ill.”
“Vagabonds! impudent rascals! who fill my palace with quarrelsome curs,” muttered Keraunus without listening to his daughter, and as he settled the folds of his pallium he growled “Arsinoe! why is it that girl never hears me.”
When she appeared he desired her to heat the irons to curl his hair.
“They are ready by the fire,” answered Arsinoe. “Come into the kitchen with me.”
Keraunus followed her, and had his locks curled and scented, while his younger children stood round him waiting for the porridge which Selene usually prepared for them at this hour.
Keraunus responded to their morning greetings with nods as friendly as Arsinoe’s tongs, which held his head tightly by the hair, would allow. It was only the blind Helios, a pretty boy of six, that he drew to his side and gave a kiss on his cheek. He loved this child, who, though deprived of the noblest of the senses, was always merry and contented, with peculiar tenderness. Once he even laughed aloud when the child clung to his sister, as she brandished the tongs, and said: