“You will flutter brilliantly.”
“We will.”
“No—you’ll be the moth—I’ll paint your wings—gaudy feather-dust. Then when you lose your coloured dust, when you fly too near the light, or when you play dodge with a butterfly net—away goes my part—you can’t fly—I—alas, poor me! What becomes of the feather-dust when the moth brushes his wings against a butterfly net?”
“What are you making so many words about? You don’t know now, do you?”
“No—that I don’t.”
“Then just be comfortable. Let me look at myself in your eyes.”
“Narcissus, Narcissus!—Do you see yourself well? Does the image flatter you?—Or is it a troubled stream, distorting your fair lineaments.”
“I can’t see anything—only feel you looking—you are laughing at me.—What have you behind there—what joke?”
“I—I’m thinking you’re just like Narcissus—a sweet, beautiful youth.”
“Be serious—do.”