‘I remember when we married, we talked of passing the honeymoon at Cythera, but Dia would have her waiting-maid and a bandbox stuffed between us in the chariot, so I got sulky after the first stage, and returned by myself.’
‘You were quite right. I hate bandboxes: they are always in the way. You would have liked Cythera if you had been in the least in love. High rocks and green knolls, bowery woods, winding walks, and delicious sunsets. I have not been there much of late,’ continued the Goddess, looking somewhat sad and serious, ‘since—but I will not talk sentiment to Ixion.’
‘Do you think, then, I am insensible?’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps you are right. We mortals grow callous.’
‘So I have heard. How very odd!’ So saying, the Goddess glided away and saluted Mars, who at that moment entered the hall. Ixion was presented to the military hero, who looked fierce and bowed stiffly. The King of Thessaly turned upon his heel. Minerva opened her album, and invited him to inscribe a stanza.
‘Goddess of Wisdom,’ replied the King, ‘unless you inspire me, the virgin page must remain pure as thyself. I can scarcely sign a decree.’
‘Is it Ixion of Thessaly who says this; one who has seen so much, and, if I am not mistaken, has felt and thought so much? I can easily conceive why such a mind may desire to veil its movements from the common herd, but pray concede to Minerva the gratifying compliment of assuring her that she is the exception for whom this rule has been established.’
‘I seem to listen to the inspired music of an oracle. Give me a pen!
‘Here is one, plucked from a sacred owl.’ ‘So! I write. There! Will it do?’ Minerva read the inscription:—