She looked and laughed. It was not for her to say what she saw.
"There was a little maid of Arcadia once, Phil, and she grew up so beautiful that all the birds fell in love with her. There were no other creatures except birds to fall in love with her, because her sheep were too busy fattening themselves for the Corinthian cattle-market to pay any attention to her. They were conscientious sheep, you see, and wished to do credit to the Arcadian pastures." Jack Dunquerque began to feel great freedom in the allegorical method.
"Well, Jack?"
"Well Phil, the birds flew about in the woods, singing to each other how lovely she was, how prettily she played, and how sweetly she sang. Nobody understood what they said, but it pleased this little maid. Presently she grew a tall maid, like yourself, Phil. And then she came out into the world. She was just like you, Phil; she had the same bright eyes, and the same laugh, and the same identical sunlit face; and O Phil, she had your very same charming ways!"
"Jack, do you really mean it? Do you like my face, and are my ways really and truly not rough and awkward?"
Jack shook his head.
"Your face is entrancing, Phil; and your ways are more charming than I can tell you. Well, she came into the world and looked about her. It was a pleasant world, she thought. And then—I think I will tell you the rest of the story another time, Phil.
"Jack, did other people besides birds love your maid of Arcadia?"
"I'm afraid they did," he groaned. "A good many other people—confound them!"
Phil looked puzzled. Why did he groan? Why should not all the world love the Arcadian maid if they pleased?