That was but a caprice of the goddess; this was a sign of her friendship.

The newness of their intimacy smote him dumb.

He passed his hand through his Struwel Peter hair and wondered.

Was it real?
There sat the goddess, separated from him by the strip of damask, her gold-flecked eyes smiling frankly and trustfully into his, pulling off her gloves and disclosing, in almost disconcerting intimacy, her warm wrists and hands.

Was he dreaming, as he sometimes did, in broad daylight, of a queer heaven in which he was strong like other men and felt the flutter of wings upon his cheek?
Something soft was in his hand.