“I’ll tell you,” said the Psammead, “since you’re so anxious to know. I was going to say this. You’ve saved my life—and I’m not ungrateful—but it doesn’t change your nature or mine. You’re still very ignorant, and rather silly, and I am worth a thousand of you any day of the week.” “Of course you are!” Anthea was beginning but it interrupted her. “It’s very rude to interrupt,” it said; “what I mean is that I’m not going to stand any nonsense, and if you think what you’ve done is to give you the right to pet me or make me demean myself by playing with you, you’ll find out that what you think doesn’t matter a single penny. See? It’s what _I_ think that matters.” “I know,” said Cyril, “it always was, if you remember.” “Well,” said the Psammead, “then that’s settled. We’re to be treated as we deserve. I with respect, and all of you with—but I don’t wish to be offensive. Do you want me to tell you how I got into that horrible den you bought me out of? Oh, I’m not ungrateful! I haven’t forgotten it and I shan’t forget it.” “Do tell us,” said Anthea. “I know you’re awfully clever, but even with all your cleverness, I don’t believe you can possibly know how—how respectfully we do respect you. Don’t we?” The others all said yes—and fidgeted in their chairs. Robert spoke the wishes of all when he said— “I do wish you’d go on.” So it sat up on the green-covered table and went on. “When you’d gone away,” it said, “I went to sand for a bit, and slept. I was tired out with all your silly wishes, and I felt as though I hadn’t really been to sand for a year.” “To sand?” Jane repeated. “Where I sleep. You go to bed. I go to sand.” Jane yawned; the mention of bed made her feel sleepy. “All right,” said the Psammead, in offended tones. “I’m sure _I_ don’t want to tell you a long tale. A man caught me, and I bit him. And he put me in a bag with a dead hare and a dead rabbit. And he took me to his house and put me out of the bag into a basket with holes that I could see through. And I bit him again. And then he brought me to this city, which I am told is called the Modern Babylon—though it’s not a bit like the old Babylon—and he sold me to the man you bought me from, and then I bit them both. Now, what’s your news?” “There’s not quite so much biting in our story,” said Cyril regretfully; “in fact, there isn’t any. Father’s gone to Manchuria, and Mother and The Lamb have gone to Madeira because Mother was ill, and don’t I just wish that they were both safe home again.” Merely from habit, the Sand-fairy began to blow itself out, but it stopped short suddenly. “I forgot,” it said; “I can’t give you any more wishes.” “No—but look here,” said Cyril, “couldn’t we call in old Nurse and get her to say _she_ wishes they were safe home. I’m sure she does.” “No go,” said the Psammead. “It’s just the same as your wishing yourself if you get some one else to wish for you. It won’t act.” “But it did yesterday—with the man in the shop,” said Robert.