"They've gone," said a small piping voice above him.
The nose of Bartimæus, pink and quivery, had issued first, his bullet head had followed, then his great hands and shoulders. The sunbeams played upon his coat, and waves of limpid shimmery blue crept softly to and fro in it.
"They've gone," the Harvest Mouse repeated.
"Excellent!" said Bartimæus. "I can't see who I am talking to—this awful glare!—but it will pass—and meanwhile I can guess at you. You are a mouse; a small mouse, with sharp-pointed toes, a blunted tail, and a warm-orange coat."
"How did you know that?" said the Harvest Mouse.
"I heard you, and I felt you, and I smelt you," said Bartimæus. "You ran up just before I put my nose out. I heard your tail flick after you. I heard the leaves crack underneath your feet. I felt and smelt your colour. If you lived underground like me, you'd notice things."
"Give me the sunshine," said the Harvest Mouse (its beauty doubled on her coat). "If you could see what I can see you'd go back home."
"How's that?" said Bartimæus.