In a ray of sunlight, Galé, seated on his little haunches, washed his shining mustaches with his forepaws; and King Hiram, stretched out on the mat, groaned plaintively in his sleep.
"He is dreaming," said Tanit-Zerga, a finger on her lips.
There was a moment of silence. Then she said:
"You must be hungry. And I do not think that you will want to eat with the others."
I did not answer.
"You must eat," she continued. "If you like, I will go get something to eat for you and me. I will bring King Hiram's and Galé's dinner here, too. When you are sad, you should not stay alone."
And the little green and gold fairy vanished, without waiting for my answer.
That was how my friendship with Tanit-Zerga began. Each morning she came to my room with the two beasts. She rarely spoke to me of Antinea, and when she did, it was always indirectly. The question that she saw ceaselessly hovering on my lips seemed to be unbearable to her, and I felt her avoiding all the subjects towards which I, myself, dared not direct the conversation.
To make sure of avoiding them, she prattled, prattled, prattled, like a nervous little parokeet.
I was sick and this Sister of Charity in green and bronze silk tended me with such care as never was before. The two wild beasts, the big and the little, were there, each side of my couch, and, during my delirium, I saw their mysterious, sad eyes fixed on me.