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Dea was asleep.
She was on her bed, dressed as usual, excepting that the body of her
gown was loosened, as when she was taking her siesta.
Near her Vinos and Fibi were sitting--one on a stool, the other on the
ground--musing. Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, they had not
dressed themselves in their goddesses' gauze, which was a sign of deep
discouragement. They had remained in their drugget petticoats and their
dress of coarse cloth.
Ursus looked at Dea.
"
She is rehearsing for a longer sleep," murmured he.
Then, addressing Fibi and Vinos,--
"You both know all. The music is over. You may put your trumpets into
the drawer. You did well not to equip yourselves as deities. You look
ugly enough as you are, but you were quite right. Keep on your
petticoats. No performance to-night, nor to-morrow, nor the day after
to-morrow. No Gwynplaine. Gwynplaine is clean gone."
Then he looked at Dea again.
"What a blow to her this will be! It will be like blowing out a candle."
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