Erato soon recovered consciousness, although she did not regain the spirit which she had shown at the commencement of the evening. She leaned, white and listless, on a pile of cushions. Cupid had brought her water to drink; and now he waited, seated on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chin and his hands clasped over them, gazing lovingly and sadly at his dear Erato, or downward in sheer dejection at the mosaic. Euterpe, at Erato’s request, had gone to the piano. For some time she sat playing nothing in particular with great feeling and much expression; but she went songwards in the end, as she always did. As far as I can remember the words, they were something like this--it is called “Malcontent”: At Somerset House in the noontide hour, and close to the roar of the Strand, The kind policeman looks to the sky with a piece of bread in his hand, And the pigeons all come fluttering down, because they understand. Would that I might a pigeon be, For some one on earth to care for me! Heigh-ho! And when they’ve had enough of crumbs they turn and fly away, Upward and onward through the smoke, and they see the city grey, Like a rotten peach that is stuffed with flies on a stifling summer’s day. Had I but wings I would fly afar, Where no disgusting cities are. Heigh-ho! But the waiter brings the bill of fare and spreads it in front of me, And pigeon-pie at one-and-four’s the first thing that I see; Imagine what the effect of this on my young soul must be. Almost I would that I had died, And were under the crust with my feet outside! Waly! Waly! Waly! “These verses,” said Euterpe in apology, “were written by a young man in London, who was forced to live in town, but would have preferred to have driven the cows to pasture, and to have made wreaths of buttercups to twine in his beautiful hair.” “Had he beautiful hair?” asked Erato softly. “N-no; that was the difficulty,” answered Euterpe. Then she came and sat by Erato again, blushing at having spoken so much. And Erato made a good deal of her, as she always did. “I am quite well again now, Euterpe,” she said. “Ah!” sighed Euterpe, “but this happens every night.” “Every night you swoon away,” added Cupid. “But I am quite well now, and I will never be ill any more.” “Then,” said Clio, “perhaps you would tell us your story now. Love stories suit the small hours.” I am afraid Clio had wanted to hear that story all the time. But she was the incarnation of outward propriety, and had struggled against her wishes. And now it was Erato who was unwilling. “I can’t,” she said in a low voice. “I could have done it before--earlier in the night--but now it reminds me of too many things.”