2
“Is any one here?” asked the mist.
But no one answered, for there was no one there.
So the mist went on in his light, gleaming clothes. He danced over the meadows, up and down, to and fro. Now he would lie quite still for a while and then begin to dance again. He skipped across the pond and into the wood, where he flung his long, wet arms round the trunks of the trees.
“Who are you, friend?” asked the night-scented rocket, who stood and distilled her perfume for her own pleasure.
The mist did not reply, but went on dancing.
“I asked who you were,” said the rocket. “And, as you don’t answer me, I conclude that you are an ill-mannered churl.”
“I’ll conclude you!” said the mist.
And he lay down round the night-scented rocket, till her petals were dripping wet.