“Surely she is your sister,” said the merman, looking at Cymodoce, who was more like the wooden nymph than the other two, and whose manners were always a little stiff and prim.
“My sister!” cried Cymodoce, quite bristling. “Am I related to a log of wood?”
Here Arethusa slyly pinched Panope behind Cymodoce’s back, for the truth was Cymodoce had once been a wooden ship, and had been made into a nymph to save her from a conflagration. She never would allow, however, that this was a true story.
“No, of course there is nothing wooden about you, dear,” said Panope, soothingly. “Don’t be vexed. Let us help the poor boy if we can.”
“He’s very like a Triton I used to know,” said Arethusa, aside.
“I saw a ship pass,” said Panope, looking down at him with her kind blue eyes. “Such a big ship! Not like the ones I used to see here years ago, and it certainly had a wooden statue on the prow, but it was only a wooden image; it was not alive.”
“How strange it is,” thought the merman to himself, “that these three goddesses should be jealous of my beauty—just like three mortal mermaids.”
“Jealous of that stick indeed!” cried Cymodoce, answering his thought.
“Men!” said Arethusa. “Panope, my darling, they are just the creatures they always were in the water or out of it.”
“So it seems,” said Panope, playing in the sand with her little pink toes like a mortal girl.