Aphrodite

er twentieth year, when from a young girl she became a woman, ambition suddenly awoke in her with maturity.

And one morning as she came out of a deep sleep, two hours past mid-day, quite tired from having slept too much, she turned over on her breast across the bed, her feet apart, rested her cheek in her hand and with a long golden pin pierced with little symmetrical holes her pillow of green linen.

She reflected profoundly.

There were at first four little points which made a square and a point in the middle. Then four other points to make a larger square. Then she tried to make a circle–but that was a little difficult.

Then she pierced points at random and began to call, “Djala! Djala!”

Djala was her Hindu slave whose name was Djalantachtchandrapchapala, which means: “Changeful-as-the-image-of-the-moon-upon-the-water.” Chrysis was too lazy to say the entire name.

The slave entered and stood near the door without quite shutting it.

“Djala, who came yesterday

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