ate length. Phorenice
had gone through much since last she slept, and though she had declared
herself Goddess in the meantime, it seemed that her body remained mortal
as heretofore. The black rings of weariness had grown under her wondrous
eyes, and she lay back amongst the cushions of the divan with her limbs
slackened and listless. When the dancers came and postured before us,
she threw them a jewel and bade them begone before they had given a half
of their performance, and the poet, a silly swelling fellow who came to
sing the deeds of the day, she would not hear at all.

"To-morrow," she said wearily, "but for now grant me peace. My Lord
Deucalion has given me much food for thought this day, and presently
I go to my chamber to muse over the future policies of this State
throughout the night. To-morrow come to me again, and if your poetry is
good and short, I will pay you surprisingly. But see to it that you
are not long-winded. If there are superfluous words, I will pay you for
those with the stick."

She rose to her feet then, and when the banqueters had made their
salutation to us, I led her away from the banqueting-hall and down the
passages with their secret doors which led to her private chambers.
She clung on my arm, and once when we halted whilst a great stone
block swung slowly ajar to let us pass, she drooped her head against my
shoulder. Her breath came warm against my cheek, and the loveliness of
her face so close at hand surpasses the description of words. I think it
was in her mind that I should kiss the red lips which were held so near
to mine, but willing though I was to play the part appointed, I could
not bring myself to that. So when the stone block had swung, she drew
away with a sigh, and we went on without further speech.

"May the High Gods treat you tenderly," I said, when we came to the door
of her bed-chamber.

"I am my own God," said she, "in all things but one. By my face! you are
a tardy wooer, Deucalion. Where do you go now?"

"To my own chamber."

"Oh, go then, go."

"Is there anything more I could do?"

"Nothing that your wit or your will would prompt you to. Yes, indeed,
you are finely decorous, Deucalion, in your old-fashioned way, but you
are a mighty poor wooer. Don't you know, my man, that a woman esteems
some things the more highly if they are taken from her by rude force?"

"It seems I know little enough about women."

"You never said a truer word. Bah! And I believe