Enter MRS. CLIFFORD.
Ger. Aunt! aunt! help me! There they come!
Mrs. C. What is it, my Arthur? They shan't hurt you. I am here. I will take care of you.
Ger. Yes, yes, you will! I am not a bit afraid of them now. Do you know them, aunt? I'll tell you a secret: they are Juno and Diana and Venus.—They hate sculptors. But I never wronged them. Three white women—only, between their fingers and behind their knees they are purple—and inside their lips, when they smile—and in the hollows of their eyes—ugh! They want me to love them; and they say you are all—all of you women—no better than they are. I know that is a lie; for they have no eyelids and no irises to their eyes.
Mrs. C. Dear boy, they shan't come near you. Shall I sing to you, and drive them away?
Ger. No, don't. I can't bear birds in my brain.
Mrs. C. How long have you had this headache? (laying her hand on his forehead.)
Ger. Only a year or two—since the white woman came—that woman (pointing to the Psyche). She's been buried for ages, and won't grow brown.
Mrs. C. There's no woman there, Arthur.
Ger. Of course not. It was an old story that bothered me. Oh, my head! my head!—There's my father standing behind the door and won't come in!—He could help me now, if he would. William! show my father in. But he isn't in the story—so he can't.