He said, after looking long upon her, “You are changed, Queen Mab; you are graver and quieter--but you are yourself, I see.” “I am not changed really,” she said. “I love all the things I did. But sometimes one doesn't know it.” He did not appear to heed her, occupied in his gentle scanning of her. “You are, I suppose, more beautiful than you were--I was prepared for that. You have been very much with me of late.” Her excitement grew suddenly quick. “Have I? It's very odd, but--” “It's not at all odd,” he said. “Nothing is. I will tell you what happens. After I go to bed--which is always lateish--I feel you come down the slope. I am not surprised--I wasn't the first time. You come in a blue gown, with bare feet. I can't see anything of you as you come but gleaming ivory--an oval, which is your face--two bars for your arms--two shafts,--and your feet. Your hair is loose all about your shoulders, and close about your face. It makes the oval longer and narrower than I see it now; your face is fuller by day than by night. You come to me out here, where I wait for you, and hold out your hand. I rise, and take it--and off we go. I realise now that I am in the conduct of a fairy. I was inspired when I hailed you--how long ago?--as Queen Mab. You show me wonderful things. Do you know that you come?” “No, but--” She stopped, and bent her head. Her experience had not been so simple. “I have thought sometimes--” She could not finish--broke off abruptly. There was a beating pause, during which neither of them dared look at the other. She broke it. She asked him what he did out here alone. “I live,” he said, “very much as I did. I read--in three tongues; I paint rarely; I do a great deal of work. At night I write my book. And then--you come.” “And what is your book?” “It began as Memoirs--in three volumes, but those have stopped. There was plenty to say, but after certain experiences which came to me here--singular enough experiences--nothing in it seemed worth while. Now I call it Despoina, after the principal character. Despoina, or the Lore of Proserpine.” “Who is Despoina?” She showed him that she had the answer already. He looked at her, smiling with his eyes. “You are Despoina.” “Oh,” said she, “I thought I was Queen Mab.” “It is the same thing. Despoina means the Lady--the Lady of the Country. She is a great fairy. The greatest.” It was now for her to smile at him, which she did a little wistfully. “Your Despoina is either too much fairy, or not enough. She does very humdrum things. She has done mischief; now she is going to repair it. She is going to be married.” He was watching her quietly, and took her news quietly. “Yes, so I learned. There was a youth here who told me.” She stopped him, flushing wildly. “A youth! Struan was here? Then it's true--it's true?”