"
"Where is the pleasure else?" cried Dianeme.
"Besides," said Electra, "Anthea says if we might but find where Styx
flows one draught--my mere palmful--would be sweeter than all the
poetry ever writ, save some."
"It is idle," cried Dianeme; "Herrick himself admired us most on
paper."
"And ink makes a cross even of a kiss, that is very well known," said
Julia.
"Ah!" said I, "all men have eyes; few see. Most men have tongues:
there is but one Robin Herrick."
"I will tell you a secret," said Dianeme.
And as if a bird of the air had carried her voice, it seemed a hush
fell on sky and greenery.
"We are but fairy-money all," she said, "an envy to see. Take
us!--'tis all dry leaves in the hand. Herrick stole the honey, and the
bees he killed. Blow never so softly on the tinder, it flames--and
dies."
"I heard once," said Electra, with but a thought of pride, "that had I
lived a little, little earlier, I might have been the Duchess of
Malfi."
"I too, Flatterer," cried Julia, "I too--Desdemona slain by a
blackamoor. To some it is the cold hills and the valleys 'green and
sad,' and the sea-birds' wailing," she continued in a low, strange
voice, "and to some the glens of heather, and the mountain-brooks, and
the rowans.
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