“That is classical music,” said the Satyr.
“I don’t know what you mean by classical music. But you may not come here and pipe, and disturb me in my afternoon slumber. If my husband knew it, he would be very angry, and have you torn to pieces by two raging griffons.”
“I am not afraid of that,” said the Satyr. “Why, I tame panthers, and they are much more dangerous.”
“I had pity on you,” continued Psyche severely, raising her head in queenly dignity, “and have not yet said anything to the king. But if you come again to-morrow, I will tell him.”
“No, you won’t!” said the Satyr saucily.
“You are an ill-mannered boy!” said Psyche, angry and offended. “You must not speak so to a princess. I ought not to condescend to speak to you. I can see very well that you don’t know how people behave at court, and that you come from the wood. And you are ugly, too, with your hairy feet and your tail.”
The Satyr looked at her astonished.
“I think you very pretty!” he whispered admiringly. “Oh, I think you so pretty! You have such pretty eyes, and such golden hair, and such a white skin! Only, I don’t like your wings. The nymphs haven’t any.”
“You may not speak to me like that!” said Psyche vexed. “I am the queen. How dare you? Go away now, else I will call the wild beasts here.”
“Well, don’t be angry!” said the Satyr in a low, imploring tone. “That is my way of speaking. We all speak like that in the wood. The Bacchantes, too, are not particular what they say. We are unacquainted with your court language. And we don’t know anything of classical music. But we are always very merry and sociable together; but you must come once....”