Am I then to believe that you were playing a part when you seemed a little while ago so anxious to recognise Psyche in the drooping butterfly?
Eros.
Oh! far from it. The sentiment of recognition was wholly genuine and almost rapturously pleasurable. It is true that in the confusion of our flight I had not been able to give a thought to our friend, who was, unless I am much mistaken, absent from her palace. Nor will I be so absurd as to pretend that I have, for a long while past, felt at all keenly the desire for her company. She has very little conversation. There are certain peculiarities of manner, which——
Hera.
I know exactly what you mean. My peacock has a very peculiar voice, and——
Eros [impatiently].
You must permit me to protest against any comparison between Psyche and your worthy
bird. But I was going to say that the moment I saw the brilliant little discrepancy which led us both to this spot—and to which I hesitate to give a more definite name—I was instantly and most pleasantly reminded of certain delightful episodes, of a really charming interlude, if I may so call it. I cannot be perfectly certain what connection our ebullient high-flyer has with the goddess whose adorer I was and whose friend I shall ever be. But the symbol—if it be no more than a symbol—has been sufficient to awaken in me all that was most enjoyable in our relations. I shall often wander in these woods, among the cloud-like masses of odorous blossom, in this windless harbour of sunlight and the murmur of leaves, in the hope of finding the little visitant here. She will never fail to remind me, but without disturbance, of all that was happiest in a series of relations which grew at last not so wholly
felicitous as they once had been. One of the pleasures this condition of mortality offers us, I foresee, is the perpetual recollection of what was delightful in the one serious liaison of my life, and of nothing else.