air of patronage. Here, in the
Garden of Love, they have none of those spiritual reservations and
pretences. Nor is here any savour of fine romance. Nothing is here but
the joy of satisfying a physical instinct--a joy that expresses itself
not in any exaltation of words or thoughts, but in mere romping. See!
Some of the women are chasing one another through the grotto. They are
rushing headlong under the fountain. What though their finery be
soaked? Anon they will come out and throw themselves on the grass, and
the sun will quickly dry them.

Leave them, then, to their riot. Look upon these others who sit and
stand here in a voluptuous bevy, hand in hand under the brazen sun, or
flaunt to and fro, lolling in one another's arms and laughing in one
another's faces. And see how closely above them hover the winged loves!
One, upside down in the air, sprinkles them with rose-leaves; another
waves over them a blazing torch; another tries to frighten them with
his unarrowed bow. Another yet has dared to descend into the group; he
nestles his fat cheek on a lady's lap, and is not rebuked. These little
chubby Cythareans know they are privileged to play any pranks here.
Doubtless they love to be on duty in this garden, for here they are
patted and petted, and have no real work to do. At close of day, when
they fly back to their mother, there is never an unmated name in the
report they bring her; and she, belike, being pleased with them, allows
them to sit up late, and to have each a slice of ambrosia and a sip of
nectar. But elsewhere they have hard work, and often fly back in dread
of Venus' anger. At that other balustrade, where Watteau, remembering
this one, painted for us the 'Plaisirs du Bal,' how often they have
lain in ambush, knowing that were one of them to show but the tip of
his wings those sedate and migniard masqueraders would faint for very
shame; yet ever hoping that they might, by their unseen presence, turn
that punctilio of flirtation into love. And always they have flown back
from Dulwich unrequited for all the pains they had taken, and pouting
that Venus should ever send them on so hard an errand. But a day in
this garden is always for them a dear holiday. They live in dread lest
Venus discover how superfluous they are here. And so, knowing that the
hypocrite's first dupe must be himself, they are always pretending to
themselves that they are of some use. See that child yonder, perched on
the balustrade, read