"My only fear was that I should find you turned into a laurel tree," said Apollo. "I shall always be afraid of that."
"Apollo," said Daphne irrelevantly, holding out to him a bunch of purple grapes in the palm of her hand, "there is a practical side to all this. People will have to know, I am afraid. I must write to my sister."
"I have reason to think that the Countess Accolanti will not be displeased," he answered. There was a queer little look about his mouth, but Daphne asked for no explanation.
"There is your father," he suggested.
"Oh!" said Daphne. "He will love you at once. His tastes and mine are very much alike."
The lover-god smiled, quite satisfied.
"You chose the steepest road of all to-day, little girl," he said. "But it is not half so long nor so hard as the one I expected to climb to find you."
"You are tired!" said Daphne anxiously. "Rest."
Bertuccio was sleeping on his flat rock; San Pietro lay down for a brief, ascetic slumber. The lovers sat side by side, with the mystery of beauty about them: the purple and gold of nearness and distance; bright color of green grass near, sombre tint of cypress and stone pine afar.
"I shall never really know whether you are a god or not," said Daphne dreamily.