"Well, little lady who is never dull, and what has all this to do with The Fairy Prince?"
"It is because I have no sisters, no friends, that—that I pretend. But you do not understand."
He played some chord with both hands.
"Very young people and very old ones pretend," he said, with dreamy sententiousness; "pretending is what makes them happy. But the Prince——?"
She smiled deprecatingly. "When I read, monsieur, I think that the girl—there is always a girl, is there not?" He nodded gravely. "I do not think it is she," she went on, "but myself; and when the book is finished, and she marries her lover, then I am happy … and dream…."
"'We are such stuff as dreams are made of,'" he murmured, and trilled with his first and second fingers.
"So, monsieur," she continued, glancing shyly at him, "in that book——"
"There is a girl."
"Yes. And a Fairy Prince who was very handsome."
"Like me?"