Erato kissed her on the lips, and Terpsichore went back to her place, crying a little, for no particular reason, and hoping that no one noticed it, after the manner of maidens.
Suddenly Urania spoke, with a deep thrill in her voice. This was her story:—
There was once a man who was very careful. He saluted the sun, spoiled a good floor by making libations, sacrificed freely, and learned by heart what enabled him to remember the distinction between the dies fastus and the dies nefastus. In fact, he did all that could be done. And his number in the books was number one hundred and three.
Now, at the end of the quarter, Zeus & Co. were going through their books. It was wearying work and dry work. Ganymede was in and out of the office all day with liquors, and Mercury had been run off his legs with messages to the different departments. The clerk was reading out the items in a dreary monotone.
“Number one hundred and one. Dead. Cholera.”
“That was a capital cholera,” murmured Co., “and did its work well. Go on, clerk.”
“Used to live in Eubœa. Killed to spite his sister, because she——”
“That’ll do,” said Zeus hurriedly; “I remember that case—a stupid woman, a very stupid woman—but pretty. Next, please.”
“Number one hundred and two. Philosopher still living because he wants to die.”