LITMIR.BIZ

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of beef, ribs I think, very red as to the lean and very white in the fat parts; a pork pie, delicately bronzed like a traveller in Central Africa. For sweets I had shapes, shapes of beauty, a jelly and a cream; a Swiss roll too, and a plum pudding; asparagus there was also and a cauliflower, and a dish of the greenest peas in all this grey world. This was my banquet outfit. I remember that the woodenness of it all depressed us wonderfully; the oneness of dish and food baffled all make-believe. With the point of nurse’s scissors we prised the viands from the platters. But their wooden nature was unconquerable. One could not pretend to eat a whole chicken any better when it was detached from its dish, and the sausages were one solid block. And when you licked the jelly it only tasted of glue and paint. And when we tried to re-roast the chickens at the nursery grate, they caught fire, and then they smelt of gasworks and india-rubber. But I am wandering. When you remember the things that happened when you were a child, you could go on writing about them for ever. I will put all this in brackets, and then you need not read it if you don’t want to.)

      But those painted wooden foods adhering firmly to their dishes were the kind of food of which the banquet now offered to Philip and Lucy was composed. Only they had more dishes than I had. They had as well a turkey, eight raspberry jam tarts, a pine-apple, a melon, a dish of oysters in the shell, a piece of boiled bacon and a leg of mutton. But all were equally wooden and uneatable.

      Philip and Lucy, growing hungrier and hungrier, pretended with sinking hearts to eat and enjoy the wooden feast. Wine was served in those little goblets which they knew so well, where the double glasses restrained and contained a red fluid which looked like wine. They did not want wine, but they were thirsty as well as hungry.

      Philip wondered what the waiters were. He had plenty of time to wonder while the long banquet went on. It was not till he saw a group of them standing stiffly together at the end of the hall that he knew they must be the matches with which he had once peopled a city, no other inhabitants being at hand.

      When all the dishes had been handed, speeches happened.

      “Friends and fellow-citizens,” Mr. Noah began, and went on to say how brave and clever Sir Philip was, and how likely it was that he would turn out to be the Deliverer. Philip did not hear all this speech. He was thinking of things to eat.

      Then every one in the hall stood and shouted, and Philip found that he was expected to take his turn at speech-making. He stood up trembling and wretched.

      “Friends and fellow-citizens,” he said, “thank you very much. I want to be the Deliverer, but I don’t know if I can,” and sat down again amid roars of applause.

      Then there was music, from a grated gallery. And then—I cannot begin to tell you how glad Lucy and Philip were—Mr. Noah said, once more in a whisper, “Cheer up! the banquet is over. Now we’ll have tea.”

      “Tea” turned out to be bread and milk in a very cosy, blue-silk-lined room opening out of the banqueting-hall. Only Lucy, Philip and Mr. Noah were present. Bread and milk is very good even when you have to eat it with the leaden spoons out of the dolls’-house basket. When it was much later Mr. Noah suddenly said “good-night,” and in a maze of sleepy repletion (look that up in the dicker, will you?) the children went to bed. Philip’s bed was of gold with yellow satin curtains, and Lucy’s was made of silver, with curtains of silk that were white. But the metals and colours made no difference to their deep and dreamless sleep.

      And in the morning there was bread and milk again, and the two of them had it in the blue room without Mr. Noah.

      “Well,” said Lucy, looking up from the bowl of white floating cubes, “do you think you’re getting to like me any better?”

      “No,” said Philip, brief and stern like the skipper in the song.

      “I wish you would,” said Lucy.

      “Well, I can’t,” said Philip; “but I do want to say one thing. I’m sorry I bunked and left you. And I did come back.”

      “I know you did,” said Lucy.

      “I came back to fetch you,” said Philip, “and now we’d better get along home.”

      “You’ve got to do seven deeds of power before you can get home,” said Lucy.

      “Oh! I remember, Perrin told me,” said he.

      “Well,” Lucy went on, “that’ll take ages. No one can go out of this place twice unless he’s a King-Deliverer. You’ve gone out once—without me. Before you can go again you’ve got to do seven noble deeds.”

      “I killed the dragon,” said Philip, modestly proud.

      “That’s only one,” she said; “there are six more.” And she ate bread and milk with firmness.

      “Do you like this adventure?” he asked abruptly.

      “It’s more interesting than anything that ever happened to me,” she said. “If you were nice I should like it awfully. But as it is—”

      “I’m sorry you don’t think I’m nice,” said he.

      “Well, what do you think?” she said.

      Philip reflected. He did not want not to be nice. None of us do. Though you might not think it to see how some of us behave. True politeness, he remembered having been told, consists in showing an interest in other people’s affairs.

      “Tell me,” he said, very much wishing to be polite and nice. “Tell me what happened after I—after I—after you didn’t come down the ladder with me.”

      “Alone and deserted,” Lucy answered promptly, “my sworn friend having hooked it and left me, I fell down, and both my hands were full of gravel, and the fierce soldiery surrounded me.”

      “I thought you were coming just behind me,” said Philip, frowning.

      “Well, I wasn’t.”

      “And then.”

      “Well, then— You were silly not to stay. They surrounded me—the soldiers, I mean—and the captain said, ‘Tell me the truth. Are you a Destroyer or a Deliverer?’ So, of course, I said I wasn’t a destroyer, whatever I was; and then they took me to the palace and said I could be a Princess till the Deliverer King turned up. They said,” she giggled gaily, “that my hair was the hair of a Deliverer and not of a Destroyer, and I’ve been most awfully happy ever since. Have you?”

      “No,” said Philip, remembering the miserable feeling of having been a coward and a sneak that had come upon him when he found that he had saved his own skin and left Lucy alone in an unknown and dangerous world; “not exactly happy, I shouldn’t call it.”

      “It’s beautiful being a Princess,” said Lucy. “I wonder what your next noble deed will be. I wonder whether I could help you with it?” She looked wistfully at him.

      “If I’m going to do noble deeds I’ll do them. I don’t want any help, thank you, especially from girls,” he answered.

      “I wish you did,” said Lucy, and finished her bread and milk.

      Philip’s bowl also was empty. He stretched arms and legs and neck.

      “It is rum,” he said; “before this began I never thought a thing like this could begin, did you?”

      “I don’t know,” she said, “everything’s very wonderful. I’ve always been expecting things to be more wonderful than they ever have been. You get sort of hints and nudges, you know. Fairy tales—yes, and dreams, you can’t help feeling they must mean something. And your sister and my daddy; the two of them being such friends when they were little, and then parted and then getting friends again;—that’s like a story in a dream, isn’t it? And your building the city and me helping. And my daddy being such a dear darling and your sister being such a darling dear. It did make me think beautiful things were sort of likely. Didn’t it you?”

      “No,” said Philip; “I mean yes,” he said, and he was in that moment nearer

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