of silver feathers. He has left me for ever. . . .”
So, alone with her thought, she wandered in the garden. The cupids she drove away, and, crying, they hid themselves among the roses. When the Satyr appeared, she went to meet him in the valley, where the irises were blooming.
“So, you are there again!”
“Yes! won’t you just see me dance again?”
He danced and frisked his tail.
“I have already told you more than once that you may not come here,” said Psyche severely.
He winked roguishly; he knew very well that his presence was not disagreeable to her.
“You are so beautiful!” he said, in his most flattering tone; “much more beautiful than any of the nymphs.”
“And the Bacchantes, then?” said Psyche.
“Much more beautiful than the Bacchantes!” he answered. “But they are also very nice. Tell me, wouldn’t you like to see them?”
Psyche was very inquisitive, and he noticed it.
“Won’t you just see them?” he repeated temptingly.
