"All what?" asked Joyce, knowing he could give only one answer, but longing for the other answer.
"My career, large C," said Charles with pomp. "He came and bought the picture next morning. I couldn't believe it at first. I thought—I thought he was a fairy."
"Mr. Craddock does not answer my idea of a fairy," said Joyce after a little consideration. "Oh, you left out about Reggie—isn't he Reggie?—trying to make an omelette, and succeeding only in producing a degraded glue."
"I don't think I noticed that," said Charles, looking at her.
"No, you were staring at us as if we were all fairies. Oh, but you did notice it. It made you laugh, and me too."
Charles went back to a previous topic.
"No, strictly speaking, he isn't a fairy," he said. "At least not completely. But it was a fairylike proceeding. Oh, yes, grant him something fairylike. He got me the commission to copy your Reynolds, and he started me on my feet, and believed in me. I found him a fairy for—for quite a long time."
"Of course there are bad fairies as well," said Joyce, conceding the point.
"Yes: do you mind my asking you one thing? Did you ever——"
"Of course not," said Joyce. "What on earth do you think of me?"