"There are seven moons," said Mabel blankly, and pointed, which is not manners.
"Of course," said Phœbus kindly; "everything in our world is seven times as much so as in yours."
"But there aren't seven of you," said Mabel.
"No, but I am seven times as much," said the Sun-god. "You see, there's numbers, and there's quantity, to say nothing of quality. You see that, I'm sure."
"Not quite," said Kathleen.
"Explanations always weary me," Phœbus interrupted. "Shall we join the ladies?"
On the further side of the pool was a large group, so white, that it seemed to make a great white hole in the trees. Some twenty or thirty figures there were in the group—all statues and all alive. Some were dipping their white feet among the gold and silver fish, and sending ripples across the faces of the seven moons. Some were pelting each other with roses—roses so sweet that the girls could smell them even across the pool. Others were holding hands and dancing in a ring, and two were sitting on the steps playing cat's-cradle—which is a very ancient game indeed—with a thread of white marble.
As the new-comers advanced a shout of greeting and gay laughter went up.
"Late again, Phœbus!" someone called out. And another: "Did one of your horses cast a shoe?" And yet another called out something about laurels.
