Her heart was touched by the quiver in his deep voice, as he intended it should be, and Olive did not press her point any further. They rode on together talking about a hundred subjects, and she found him the most agreeable of men. She happened to mention a great novel just then coming out in Harper’s, the scene of which was laid in Florence, and he said musingly:
“Ah yes! Florence is a lovely city, nestling among the blue hills.”
“Have you ever seen it then?” asked Olive much surprised.
“Yes, long ago, when I was a young fellow.”
She gazed at him. “You are a most incomprehensible person,” she said, “living here on this prairie and yet you have seen Florence.”
“You forget Perseus travels easily with his winged feet, from here to Florence would be a bagatelle to him.”
“I begin to think there must be something uncanny about you.”
“Now don’t go and change me into any other personality. Remember you are all-powerful, and by your word alone have made me Perseus. Your word is mighty, and you can cast me down into hell and make me a devil by a breath,” said he half banteringly.
“What odd language!” said Olive, looking a little frightened. “How you must astonish the natives when you talk in that way!”
“Do you fancy I talk to anyone as I do to you? Don’t you understand that I am Perseus to you, but to nobody else in the world?”