grass, and all the rest was silence.

"You look anxious," said the physician. "Is it the
wrist?"

"No," answered the girl, facing him bravely, under the momentary
inspiration of a wave of common sense, "I am wondering why you
make this ridiculous assumption about yourself. Tell me who you
really are."

If he had defended himself she would have argued, but he was
silent and she half believed.

"But you look like a mortal," she protested, answering her own
thoughts. "And you wear conventional clothing. I don't mean
this sheepskin, but the other day."

"It is a realistic age," he answered, smiling. "People no longer
believe what they do not see. We are forced to adopt modern
methods and modern costume to show that we exist."

"You do not look like the statue of Apollo," ventured
Daphne.

"Did people ever dare tell the truth about the gods? Never!
They made up a notion of what a divine nose should be and
bestowed it upon all the gods impartially. So with the forehead,
so with the hair. I assure you, Miss Willis, we are much more
individual than Greek art would lead you to expect."