“Oh, no,” she reassured him. “We all have Greek names because they are more beautiful.”
“‘We all’!... Good lord, child, who are you?”
“Why—I am Athena—one of the Morris Dancers. We came to do our Spring Dance for the party.”
How absurdly simple, he thought. And yet how insufficiently it explained the wonder of her.
“Why are you here—alone?” he went on. He could do nothing but question her. He had to get to the bottom of her, somehow.
“We’re through dancing—and the people tired me.”
He sat down on the edge of the fountain, and she moved up beside him, touching him, a divine friendliness in her deep blue eyes.
“How did they tire you—child?” he asked her gently.
“They are all so artificial—and so conscious. We are taught how terrible this consciousness of self and sex is. Hellena Morris teaches us that woman is only really beautiful, really strong, when she is quite unconscious and unstudied.”
He eyed the grave little lecturer amusedly.