The cherry-tree was dead, for its dryad had gone,--fled, said evil tongues, fled away to the town! But as yet, in the time to which my thoughts return, our sweet secret mornings were known only to ourselves.

It was my custom then to rise early, to read Latin authors,--thanks to Hebe, still unread.

I used to light my fire and make tea for myself, till one rapturous morning I discovered that Hebe was fond of rising early too, and that she would like to light my fire and make my tea.

After a time she began to sweeten it for me.

And then she would sit on my knee, and we would translate Catullus together,--into English kisses; for she was curiously interested in the learned tongue.
How lovely she used to look with the morning sun turning her hair to golden mist, and dancing in the blue deeps of her eyes; and once when by chance she had forgotten to fasten her gown, I caught glimpses of a bosom that was like two happy handfuls of wonderful white cherries...
She wore a marvellous little printed gown.