‘You speak sooth, O Cyril,’ remarked the Phoenix, coming out from the cupboard where the blackbeetles lived, and the torn books, and the broken slates, and odd pieces of toys that had lost the rest of themselves. ‘Now hear the wisdom of Phoenix, the son of the Phoenix—’
‘There is a society called that,’ said Cyril.
‘Where is it? And what is a society?’ asked the bird.
‘It’s a sort of joined-together lot of people—a sort of brotherhood—a kind of—well, something very like your temple, you know, only quite different.’
‘I take your meaning,’ said the Phoenix. ‘I would fain see these calling themselves Sons of the Phoenix.’
‘But what about your words of wisdom?’
‘Wisdom is always welcome,’ said the Phoenix.
‘Pretty Polly!’ remarked the Lamb, reaching his hands towards the golden speaker.
The Phoenix modestly retreated behind Robert, and Anthea hastened to distract the attention of the Lamb by murmuring—
“I love my little baby rabbit;
But oh! he has a dreadful habit
Of paddling out among the rocks
And soaking both his bunny socks.’