But the Poet urbanely continued: "I'm forgetting those hundred pounds," and taking out a sheaf of banknotes from a vast white pocket like a snow-cavern he crumpled them into a ball and hurled them at one of the barred shutters. The shutter opened to let the packet pass. "Money, my friend," observed the Poet tranquilly, "opens all doors." A soft peal of very quiet laughter filled the little house and all the other shutters opened to a thin music: room after room flashed into light as though so many plays were starting on so many miniature stages with all the shadows flying to the roof: and one by one the half naked little women of the wild crept out of hiding and began their dance. And through it all as though it meant nothing for him, though his room was flashing from hue to hue like a transformation scene and an enchanting person had her arms around his neck, old Price bawled down: "Well, what of Norman?" "He has become King of that country and wedded to its Queen," roared the Poet. "I always said he was a sound practical fellow without an idea in his head," remarked William Price with serene philosophy. "Like most of the Half-Race," assented the Poet. "But we filled his bottle with luck," trilled the silvery lady upstairs. "And his countenance with beauty," replied the Poet. "Well, we really must be off now. Good-bye to you all, and a pleasant evening!" Laughing good-byes rippled back at him from all over the house like the jingling of toy harness bells. "Let us walk down to the sea," said the Poet, turning to go. "How far is it to the sea, John?" "Ten miles." "And by which road?" "Straight on." "Ah, yes," said the Poet, setting off at a swinging pace, "it is the road by which first I came to Blaindon." But before they had gone many yards John heard his name called and stood still. Down through the moonlight glided as it might be a wingless angel and by his side there stood the fairy of the upper window. "John," she said, "when you see my son again give him this kiss." And kissing him she floated away. The Poet who had gone ahead, waited for John to come up. "But I must go back to my mother," the young man protested, as though a glimpse of the unmagical past had driven a sword through his mind. "She is very ill." "I fear she will die within the week," replied the Poet, "but I inquired at your house on the way to the Blaindon Arms and learnt that to-night she is happily asleep and will not need you. When you are alone in the world, John, you must go to Norman to give him his mother's kiss and help him through days of trouble. It's no easy game even in a little country, even with a born Queen, even with the Immortals helping--the game of King."