“And are you aware,” thundered Zeus, “what the dickens you’re talking about? Explain yourself.”
The boy burst into tears. “I won’t do it any more,” he sobbed. “I won’t. I’m not a blessing; I’m a curse. And I’m not going to be your servant, because you hate everybody.”
“No,” said Co. quietly; “we love them.”
“Then what does your first rule mean?” asked the boy fiercely.
“The first rule,” replied Co., “is that twenty years shall not be enough to make a life, and ten minutes shall be more than enough to spoil it. We made that rule to stop people spoiling their lives.”
Zeus rubbed his hands softly together, and smiled, and said nothing.
“I did not mind once,” the boy went on, “when I made women weep and men rave. I do now. It’s always the same thing. They long, and long, and cannot obtain; and then the weaker sort kill themselves, and the stronger sort grow cruel. Or, if they obtain, misery in one form or another follows. I resign my post.”
“Just pass me that thunderbolt,” said Zeus, in an unpleasant voice.
“Oh, you can kill me,” the boy exclaimed, contemptuously, “I care nothing for that. I wish I had never lived.”
“But you mistake,” said Co., suavely, “you mistake; Mr. Zeus had no intention of killing you. You have a right to resign your post if you like. He was going to kill a young girl named Psyche.”