Louise hesitated.
"Well, heaps that one loves aren't. Grimm's and Hans Andersen's aren't, or even The Wondrous Isles. And, of course, none of the Lang books. I hate those. You know, proper fairy stories aren't easy to get. You have to dig. You get bits out of the notes in the Waverley Novels, and there's Kilmeny, and The Celtic Twilight, and The Lore of Proserpine, and Lemprière. Do you believe in fairies, Miss Hartill?"
"It depends on the mood I'm in," said Clare seriously, "and the place. Elves and electric railways are incompatible."
Louise flung herself upon the axiom.
"Do you think so? Now I don't, Miss Hartill—I don't. If they are—they can stand railways. But you just believe in them literaturily——"
"Literally," Clare corrected.
"No, no—literaturily—just as a pretty piece of writing. You'll never see them if you think of them like that, Miss Hartill. The Greeks didn't—they just believed in Pan, and the Oreads, and the Dryads, and all those delicious people; and the consequence was that the country was simply crammed with them. You just read Lemprière! I wish I'd lived then. Miss Hartill, did you ever see a Good Person?"
"I'm afraid not, Louise. But I had a nurse who used to tell me about her grand-aunt: she was supposed to be a changeling."
Louise wriggled with delight.
"Oh, tell about her, Miss Hartill. What was she like?"