"Certainly, I'll get it," said M. Paul soothingly. "Come back here and—I'll get your dolly."
She stamped her foot in displeasure. "Not at all; I don't like this place. It's a hot, nasty place and—come"—she caught Coquenil's hand—"we'll go out where the fairies are. That's a much nicer place to play, Willie."
Here there came to M. Paul an urging of mysterious guidance, as if an inward voice had spoken to him and said that God was trying to save them, that He had put wisdom in this girl's mouth and that he must listen.
"All right," he said, "we'll go and play where the fairies are, but—how do we get there?"
"Through the door under the shelf. You know perfectly well, Willie!"
"Yes," he agreed, "I know about the door, but—I forget how to get it open."
"Silly!" She stamped her foot again. "You push on that stone thing under the shelf."
Shading his eyes against the glare, Coquenil looked at the shelf and saw that it was supported by two stone brackets.
"You mean the thing that holds the shelf up?"
"Yes, you must press it."