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 a low, imploring tone. “That is my way of speaking. We all speak like that in the wood. The Bacchantes, too, are not particular what they say. We are unacquainted with your court language. And we don’t know anything of classical music. But we are always very merry and sociable together; but you must come once. . . .”

“Are you going?” said Psyche imperiously, and red with passion, and with her finger she pointed to him to be gone. He crouched down suddenly in the reeds of the brook among the irises and narcissi, and she saw him stealing away through the high grass. When she turned round she beheld the cupids; they were bringing her her crown.

“The king is looking for you, Psyche!” they cried out in the distance, and like a cloud they hovered round her.

She went back with them and threw herself into the arms of her husband.

“Don’t roam so far away, my little Psyche!” said Eros. “In the wood behind the hills are wild beasts. . . .”

Night came on; Eros sang, the nightingale filled the air with her sweet notes.

“Classical music!” thought Psyche.