He turned, or rather he focused sight again to find her. He was startled a little. For a moment it seemed like his own voice speaking deep down within himself.
'Make yourself at home,' it continued, 'you belong here—almost as much as I do.' And at the sound of her voice all the perplexities of his life lay down. It brushed him smooth, like a wind that sets rough feathers all one way,
He remembered again where he was, and what was going on.
'I do,' he answered, happy as a boy. 'I am at home. It is perfect.'
'Do you, indeed! You speak as though this story were your own!'
And her laugh was like the tinkle of hare-bells in the wind.
'It is,' he said; 'at least I had—I have, rather, a considerable hand in the making of it.'
'Possibly,' she answered, 'but the story belongs to the person who first started it. And that person is myself. The story is mine really!'
'Yours!' he gasped.
'Because—I am the story!'