"Can't I? Most people are. It's not a synonym for murderess! Stop frowning, child. Why, I don't believe you know what it means even. Do you know what an egoist is, Louise?" "Sir Willoughby Patterne!" said Louise promptly. Clare threw up her hands. "What next? I wish I'd had charge of you earlier. You shouldn't try so hard to say 'Humph,' little pig." "I don't." Louise was indignant. "Then what possesses you to steer your cockle-boat on to Meredith? Well--what do you think of him? What have you read?" "About all. He's queer. He's not Dickens or Scott, of course----" Her tone deprecated. "Of course not," said Clare, with grave sympathy. "But I like him. I like Chloe. I like the sisters--you know--'Fine Shades and Nice Feeling'----" "Why?" Clare shot it at her. "I don't know. They made me laugh. They're awfully real people. And I liked that book where the two gentlemen drink wine. 'Veuve' something." "What on earth did you see in that?" Clare was amused. "I don't know. I just liked them. Of course, I adore Shagpat." "That I understand. It's a fairy tale to you, isn't it?" "Not a proper one--only Arabian Nightsy." "What's a proper one, Louise?" Louise hesitated. "Well, heaps that one loves aren't. Grimm's and Hans Andersen's aren't, or even _The Wondrous Isles_. And, of course, none of the Lang books. I hate those. You know, proper fairy stories aren't easy to get. You have to dig. You get bits out of the notes in the Waverley Novels, and there's _Kilmeny_, and _The Celtic Twilight_, and _The Lore of Proserpine_, and Lemprière. Do you believe in fairies, Miss Hartill?" "It depends on the mood I'm in," said Clare seriously, "and the place. Elves and electric railways are incompatible." Louise flung herself upon the axiom. "Do you think so? Now I don't, Miss Hartill--I don't. If they are--they can stand railways. But you just believe in them literaturily----" "Literally," Clare corrected. "No, no--literaturily--just as a pretty piece of writing. You'll never see them if you think of them like that, Miss Hartill. The Greeks didn't--they just believed in Pan, and the Oreads, and the Dryads, and all those delicious people; and the consequence was that the country was simply crammed with them. You just read Lemprière! I wish I'd lived then. Miss Hartill, did you ever see a Good Person?" "I'm afraid not, Louise. But I had a nurse who used to tell me about her grand-aunt: she was supposed to be a changeling." Louise wriggled with delight. "Oh, tell about her, Miss Hartill. What was she like?" "Tiny and black, with a very white skin. They were a fair family. Nurse said they all disliked her, though she never did them any harm. She used to be out in the woods all day--and she ate strange food." "What?" "Fungi, and nettle-tops, and young bracken, and blackberries, my nurse said." "Blackberries?"