"Can the gods lack pins?" asked the girl, smiling. She searched, and found two in her belt, and handed them to him.
"The gods do not explain themselves," he answered, binding the sheepskin tightly about her wrist.
"So I observe," she remarked dryly.
"Is that right?" he asked. "Now, when you reach home, you must remove the bandage and hold your hand and wrist first in very hot water, then in cold. Is there some one who can put the bandage back as I have it? See, it simply goes about the wrist, and is rather tight. You must pardon my taking possession of the case, but no one else was near. Apollo has always been something of a physician, you know."
"You apparently used the same classical dictionary that I did," retorted Daphne. "I remember the statement there."
Then she became uncomfortable, and wished her words unsaid, for awe had come upon her. After all, nothing could be more unreal than she was to herself in these days of wonder. Her mind was full of dreams as they sat and watched white clouds drifting over the deep blue of the sky. Near them the sheep were cropping grass, and all the rest was silence.
"You look anxious," said the physician. "Is it the wrist?"
"No," answered the girl, facing him bravely, under the momentary inspiration of a wave of common sense, "I am wondering why you make this ridiculous assumption about yourself. Tell me who you really are."
If he had defended himself she would have argued, but he was silent and she half believed.
"But you look like a mortal," she protested, answering her own thoughts. "And you wear conventional clothing. I don't mean this sheepskin, but the other day."