"Don't let us discuss such serious subjects as ourselves," she proposed. "Look at the sky and the swans—but be careful not to slip—and recollect that forgetfulness was the nectar upon which the gods subsisted."
"Quite so. There!" He squared his shoulders, but he looked at neither the sky nor the swans. He looked directly at her.
"I suppose I have just proposed to you and been refused; but, after all, what does it matter? Already I have forgotten the trifling episode. I've drunk of the gods' nectar. It saves one's reason occasionally. Because I have been able to forget, I have been able to live."
"You deserve the cross for heroism," she said. "I think you are wonderful."
He colored becomingly. "Spare my modesty," he pleaded. Then: "Look here! Now that we're quite alone, tell me your story."
"Tell me yours first."
"Oh, mine's so very hideous. But I don't mind telling you. My fiancée's mother, who had been out of the country for years, came back to find her little girl grown up, so she—well, she managed to break it all off—"
His voice slipped a note, and, turning, she saw that his face was working.
"I can't tell you more," he said, with a choke. "I'm not as brave as I thought. I can't help remembering. You'll find plenty to tell you that I loved the mother. She wasn't very old, you know."
"Why didn't you marry her?"