“I heard you wanted to be angry with me, Zeus,” said the child.
Zeus looked at her grimly. “I should prefer something rather bigger.”
“Why do you want to be angry?” the child asked.
“Because I’ve done everything, and know almost everything, and I’m quite sick of everything.”
“Music?” suggested the child.
“Sick of it!”
“Love?”
“Everything—everything, I tell you,” said Zeus hastily. “I’m tired of eating, drinking, loving, hating, sleeping, walking, talking, killing—everything.”
“I’m sorry for you, Zeus,” said the child, with a sigh. “Couldn’t you die?” she suggested afterwards, seriously.
Zeus frowned. “No, no—not that,” he said. There was a moment’s pause. Zeus was thinking; and, as he thought, his face grew very ugly. He was immortal, but to a certain extent his immortality was conditioned. He might die at any moment he chose, and remain dead for an hour. If at the end of that hour any one would put his lips on the lips of Zeus, and draw in his breath, then Zeus would come back to life, and he that so drew in his breath would die. But if no one did that, then Zeus himself would be dead for ever. Zeus had never ventured on the experiment; he knew that no one loved him enough. But he might play on the simplicity of the child. And take her life? No, he could not do that. But he would ask her.