“Fairies are truthful, in a certain way. But you are not truthful. You were not thinking of fairies when you—”
“When I what?”
“Found fault with me.”
“I am not sure of that. But I will translate to you my thoughts, so far as I can read them myself, and to do so I will resort to the fairies. Let us suppose that a fairy has placed her changeling into the cradle of a mortal: that into the cradle she drops all manner of fairy gifts which are not bestowed on mere mortals; but that one mortal attribute she forgets. The changeling grows up; she charms those around her: they humour, and pet, and spoil her. But there arises a moment in which the omission of the one mortal gift is felt by her admirers and friends. Guess what that is.”
Lily pondered. “I see what you mean; the reverse of truthfulness, politeness.”
“No, not exactly that, though politeness slides into it unawares: it is a very humble quality, a very unpoetic quality; a quality that many dull people possess; and yet without it no fairy can fascinate mortals, when on the face of the fairy settles the first wrinkle. Can you not guess it now?”
“No: you vex me; you provoke me;” and Lily stamped her foot petulantly, as in Kenelm’s presence she had stamped it once before. “Speak plainly, I insist.”
“Miss Mordaunt, excuse me: I dare not,” said Kenelm, rising with a sort of bow one makes to the Queen; and he crossed over to Mrs. Braefield.
Lily remained, still pouting fiercely.
Sir Thomas took the chair Kenelm had vacated.