"That's sweet of you." Aphrodite takes a few steps nearer.

Her smile is still in place, small and secretive at the edges of her mouth; but she almost wants to sigh.

Mortals don't sing enough anymore, just to themselves. (That Gaeta's extenuating circumstances may be less than pleasant, and the song a means of coping rather than a refreshing diversion, only dimly occurs to her.)

"Very gentlemanly," she concludes.