“And husband of the delectable Psyche?” I cried, recalling certain facts I had learned.  “You look awfully young to be married.”

“Hum—­well, I was, and I am, but we’ve separated,” the boy replied, with a note of sadness in his voice.  “She was a very nice little person, that Psyche—­one of the best ever, I assure you—­but she was too much of a butterfly to be the perpetual confidante of a person charged with such important matters as I am.  Besides, she didn’t get on with mother.”

“Seems to me that I have heard that Madame Venus did not approve of the match,” I vouchsafed.

“No.  She didn’t from the start,” said Cupid.  “Psyche was too pretty, and ma rather wanted to corner all the feminine beauty in our family; but I had my way in the end.  I generally do,” the little chap added, with a chuckle.

“But the separation, my dear boy?” I put in.  “I am awfully sorry to hear of that.  I, in common with most mortals, supposed that the marriage was idyllic.”

“It was,” said Cupid, “and therefore not practical enough to be a good investment.  You see, sir, there was a time when the love affairs of the universe were intrusted to my care.  Lovers everywhere came to me to confide their woes, and I was doing a great business.  Everybody was pleased with my way of conducting my department.  I seemed to have a special genius for managing a love affair.  Even persons who were opposed to the administration conceded that the Under Secretary of Home Affairs—­myself—­was assured of a cabinet office for life, whatever party was in power.  If Pluto had been able to get elected, the force of public opinion would have kept me in office.  Then I married, myself, and things changed.  Like a dutiful husband, I had no secrets from my wife.  I couldn’t have had if I had wanted to.  Psyche’s curiosity was a close second to Pandora’s, and, if she wanted to know anything, there was never any peace in the family until she found out all about it.  Still, I didn’t wish to have any secrets from her.  As a scientific expert in Love, I knew that the surest basis of a lasting happiness lay in mutual confidence.  Hence, I told Psyche all I knew, and it got her into trouble right away.”

“She—­ah—­couldn’t keep a secret?” I asked.

“At first she could,” said Cupid.  “That was the cause of the first row between her and Venus.  Mother got mad as a hatter with her one morning after breakfast because Psyche could keep a secret.  There was a little affair on between Jupiter and a certain person whose name I shall not mention, and I had charge of it.  Of course, I told Psyche all about it, and in some way known only to woman she managed to convey to Venus the notion that she knew all about it, but couldn’t tell, and, still further, wouldn’t tell.  I’d gone down-town to business, leaving everything peaceful and happy, but when I got back to luncheon—­Great Chaos, it was awful!  The two ladies were not on speaking terms, and I had to put on a fur overcoat to keep from freezing to death in the atmosphere that had arisen between them.  It was six inches below zero—­and the way those two would sniff and sneer at each other was a caution.”