“THE ROOM SEEMED FULL OF CIRCLING WINGS.”
And then a soft wind blew through the little room—a wind like the wind that breathes softly in walled gardens and shakes down the rose-leaves on sparkling summer mornings. And the white feathers on the floor were stirred by the sweet wind, and drifted into little heaps and lines and curves till they made on the dusty floor the circle of a clock-face, with all its figures and its long hand and its short hand and its second hand. And the white Mole stood in the middle.
“All white things obey me,” it said. “Come, sit down on the minute hand, and you’ll be there in no time.”
“Where?” asked Elfrida, getting off the chair.
“Why, at the time when they open the panel. Let me get out of the clock first. And give me the key of the parlour door. It’ll save time in the end.”
So Elfrida sat down on the minute hand, and instantly it began to move round—faster than you can possibly imagine. And it was very soft to sit on—like a cloud would be if the laws of nature ever permitted you to sit on clouds. And it spun round so that it seemed no time at all before she found herself sitting on the floor and heard voices, and knew that the secret panel was open.
“I see,” she said wisely, “it does work backwards, doesn’t it?”
But there was no one to answer her, for the Mouldiwarp was gone. And the white pigeons’ feathers were in heaps on the floor. She saw them, as she stood up. And there wasn’t any clock-face any more.
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