She sees me and her face is full of laughter. Her laughter sounds simple, childlike, arch. And surely, it is a child's mouth from which it issues. The innocent blue eyes look at me in mad challenge. The firm cheeks glow with the delight of life. Heavens! What is this child's head doing on that body? She throws the harp upon the clouds, sits down on the strings, scratches her little nose swiftly with her left wing and calls out to me: "Come, slide with me!"
I stare at her open-mouthed. Then I gather all my courage and stammer:
"Who are you?"
"My name is Thea," she giggles.
"But who are you?" I ask again.
"Who? Nonsense. Come, pull me! But no; you can't fly. I'll pull you.
That will go quicker."
And she arises. Heavens! What a form! Magnificently the hips curve over the fallen girdle; in how noble a line are throat and bosom married. No sculptor can achieve the like.
With her slender fingers she grasps the blue, embroidered riband that is attached to the neck of the harp. She grasps it with the gesture of one who is about to pull a sleigh.
"Come," she cries again. I dare not understand her. Awkwardly I crouch on the strings.
"I might break them," I venture.
"You little shaver," she laughs. "Do you know how light you are? And now, hold fast!"