"Charles—Charles!" He realized abruptly that a worried Deborah was calling to him.
He told her, smiling reassurance, "I was just trying to figure something out. I'm sorry."
"Ye need not be," she replied. "Faith, I too was struck dumb when first I beheld the splendor of this garden. Come, let us explore its reaches."
They walked on soft warm turf that gave gently beneath their bare soles through what Justin decided must be a fair approximation of the average man's conception of paradise.
However, the inmates of this artificial Eden were, to Justin at any rate, more Rabellaisian than Godly. They watched a panting satyr chase a giggling nymph around and around the bole of a giant tree—but the satyr was a plump balding gentleman half-clad in red and yellow motley, while his quarry was a plumper if less bald damsel whose complex and tight-drawn corset and shift promised that while the chase would be brief, its consummation would prove to be appallingly difficult.
"'Twill offer poor Wilmot more woe than a chastity girdle," Deborah said, laughing. "Milady of Warwick is the only one of us he can catch."
"You mean that old goat has actually chased you?" Justin asked.
"And prithee, why not?" she countered coolly.
Justin grinned ruefully. He said, "Well, I hope you didn't let him catch you."
"That I have ne'er allowed any man," she replied quietly and a shadow of sadness returned to haunt her fascinating face.