“I’m rather thirsty,” said Erato to Clio. Erato had stretched herself once more on the mosaic floor of the cloud-room, with enough cushions to make herself comfortable. “So am I,” said Terpsichore. “Well, considering how very hot the night is, I am not surprised. Cupid!” The little petulant boy came laughing into the room, and nodded his head in reply to the order which Clio gave him. Then he brought in a silver tray covered with fragile glasses of nectar. All the Muses drank nectar except Melpomene. She had a look of intense gloom, and she drank blood-and-seltzer from a very large tumbler with a very bad curse cut in Greek characters on the margin of it. Before Cupid handed her glass to Erato, he just touched it with his own lips. Then he sat down by Erato’s side, playing with her long hair. “Erato,” he said, “I would like to wrap your beautiful dark hair all around me, and go to sleep. There’s a faint scent of those yellow roses about it, and it’s awfully soft and warm. I love you, Erato.” “You ought to love all of us,” said Clio reprovingly. “I try to,” said Cupid, very soberly, “and it’s tough work with some of them,” he added under his breath. “Cupid, darling,” whispered Erato to him, “to-morrow I will give you the bow-string that you wanted.” “Thanks awfully,” said Cupid, “and you must tell the next story, you know, and I will lie here and listen to it. Tell me the story again about that shepherd in Sicily who----” “Hush! hush!” interrupted Erato, “some of the sisters hardly like that kind of story; and they say that the young students at work in the colleges below us never think of love, and would not care to hear about it.” “Well,” replied Cupid, with some assumption of importance, “I was there last June week on business, and I bagged three hundred and forty-two brace. That looks rather different, I fancy. Every man that I hit is engaged. They write long letters to Her. They keep faded flowers which She wore. They are beginning to drop all their bachelor friends. One of them has made a kind of little shrine on his mantelpiece, in which he keeps one tiny white satin slipper that She wore, and also a large photograph of Her. Unfortunately the virus--I mean the sweet influence--is not always permanent. Only too often the June week of one year undoes the work of the previous June. I feel sure they would like to hear the story about the Sicilian shepherd, and how he got to the cave, and found----” “Hush!” said Erato quickly, “that’s the most dangerous part of all. We’ll see about it though. Clio,” she added, raising her voice, “Cupid tells me that you must be a little mistaken about those young students; he says that----” “I am sorry to have to interrupt you,” remarked Clio, “but I have asked Melpomene to tell us a soul-moving story, and she is going to commence.”