“Be careful. Uncle gave it to me last New Year, and I'm very fond of it. She is just lifting her lamp to see what Cupid is like, for she hasn't seen him yet,” said Rose, busy putting her worktable in order.
“You ought to have a Cupid for her to look at. She has been waiting patiently a whole year, with nothing but a bronze lizard in sight,” said Mac with the half-shy, half-daring look which was so new and puzzling.
“Cupid fled away as soon as she woke him, you know, and she had a bad time of it. She must wait longer till she can find and keep him.”
“Do you know she looks like you? Hair tied up in a knot, and a spiritual sort of face. Don't you see it?” asked Mac, turning the graceful little figure toward her.
“Not a bit of it. I wonder whom I shall resemble next! I've been compared to a Fra Angelico angel, Saint Agnes, and now 'Syke,' as Annabel once called her.”
“You'd see what I mean, if you'd ever watched your own face when you were listening to music, talking earnestly, or much moved, then your soul gets into your eyes and you are like Psyche.”
“Tell me the next time you see me in a 'soulful' state, and I'll look in the glass, for I'd like to see if it is becoming,” said Rose merrily as she sorted her gay worsteds.
“Your feet in the full-grown grasses,
Moved soft as a soft wind blows;
You passed me as April passes,
With a face made out of a rose,”
murmured Mac under his breath, thinking of the white figure going up a green slope one summer day; then, as if chiding himself for sentimentality, he set Psyche down with great care and began to talk about a course of solid reading for the winter.
After that, Rose saw very little of him for several weeks, as he seemed to be making up for lost time and was more odd and absent than ever when he did appear.