“There isn’t any more of the story, is there?” asked Thalia.
“No, that’s all.”
“Thank Zeus!” all the sisters ejaculated fervently, but in a whisper.
V.
POLYMNIA’S STORY: AN HOUR OF DEATH.
CLIO was toying with the delicate little glass from which she had been drinking. “Before we have the next story, one of you might sing something,” she said. “I shall be glad to play the accompaniment on the sackbut, which is a historical instrument. We first hear of it as being in use about the latter end of the——”
“Let’s see,” said Erato, shamelessly interrupting, “I was to tell the next story, I think.”
“Well, let’s have the song first.”
“I like music at night,” said Erato. “At night it has a speaking voice, and one understands it better. And it would be a good introduction to my story; but it must not be a drawing-room song. They are called drawing-room songs because they are whistled in the street. No, my song must be good. There mustn’t be any—
Love me! love me forrever!
Till the years shall porse awye