Baggot stopped suddenly and frowned. “It sounds childish, telling it. As if it were some silly sort of extravaganza. But there’s the dialogue. Smart and unexpected, you know. Modern drawing-room stuff put up against the heart of the forest and the figures of the story-books. Bringing the sublime and the ridiculous together, you know--and the material and the ideal, and the every-day and the remote. Silly fallacies of our own day, set against the truth in words such as Æsop would have used.” He stopped suddenly and threw out his hands in a despairing gesture. “Oh, what’s the use?” he demanded. “I can’t get at it at all, just talking about it. You’ll have to see it in writing.” “I’m sure I understand,” Baron reassured him. “You don’t put it so vaguely at all. And you know I saw the first act.” “Yes.... But I’ve done that over--ever so much better.” He clasped his knee in his hands and fidgeted for a moment. And then he broke out with--“And the settings! The four seasons, in the forest, for the four acts. Big things to hit the eye--but nicely, you know, so that the drama doesn’t suffer--so that it’s not choked, you might say.” “Yes,” said Baron, “I understand.” Baggot began to go more into detail touching the plot. He put this part of it very incisively. Occasionally he laughed, or his eyes blazed with satisfaction. He had reached the end before it was time for them to leave the car. Bonnie May had seemed to be listening attentively to Mrs. Baron; but once Baron heard her say, with slight confusion: “I beg your pardon,” because she had not responded to a question that had been put to her. Now, as they were getting ready to leave the car, she nodded her head decisively. “Why are you nodding?” asked Mrs. Baron. She was frankly irritated. And the child prevaricated. “Oh, I think it’s because I’m--well, satisfied.” The entrance to Fairyland might have been described as a study in chaos. Hundreds of people were pouring into the gates, and they were all coming immediately under the spell of the bedlam of noises and the blaze of lights. Baron had one moment of grave doubt as he marshalled his party before getting into the vortex of human forms. He thought his mother could not have looked less satisfied with things in general if she had been the Peri of the legend, just turned back from paradise because she hadn’t brought the thing that was expected of her. But Mrs. Baron was playing a game. Rather, she was fighting a battle, and she remarked calmly, in response to Baron’s anxious look. “It won’t be so bad after we get inside.” “No doubt you’re right,” replied Baron; and then they all pressed forward. They got by the gatemen just as a car of the scenic-railway variety was cut loose from its moorings on a high platform to which it had been dragged, and began its incredibly swift descent along a far-off vista of trees and lights. Women shrieked as if they were being enveloped in flames, and tried to hold their hats in place.