And all the while—just the little time it took for the canoe to glide from the stream well into the pool—she had been regarding him tranquilly with her deep blue eyes, her bare arms, stretching downward to the grass, supporting her in an attitude suggesting recent recumbency. And now, as the craft brushed the lily-pads aside, she spoke.
“Do you not fear the resentment of the gods?” she asked gravely. “It is not wise for a mortal to look upon us.”
“I crave your mercy, O fair goddess,” he answered. “Blame rather this tiny argosy of mine which, propelled by hands invisible, has brought me hither. I doubt not that the gods hold me in enchantment.” He mentally patted himself on the back; it wasn’t so bad for an impromptu!
She leaned forward and sunk her chin in the cup of one small hand, viewing him intently as though pondering his words.
“It may be so,” she answered presently. “What call you your frail vessel?”
“From this hour, Good Fortune.” Her gaze dropped.
“Will you deign to tell me your name, O radiant goddess?” he continued. She raised her eyes again and he thought a little smile played for a moment over her red lips.
“I am Clytie,” she answered, “a water-nymph. I dwell in this pool. And you, how are you called?”
He answered readily and gravely: “I am Vertumnus, clad thus in mortal guise that I may gain the presence of Pomona. Long have I wooed her, O Nymph of the Pool.”