And he went.
‘Don’t speak again, there’s a dear,’ said Anthea; ‘you wouldn’t like to interfere with your own temple, would you?’
So now the Phoenix was quiet, but it kept whispering to the children. It wanted to know why there was no altar, no fire, no incense, and became so excited and fretful and tiresome that four at least of the party of five wished deeply that it had been left at home.
What happened next was entirely the fault of the Phoenix. It was not in the least the fault of the theatre people, and no one could ever understand afterwards how it did happen. No one, that is, except the guilty bird itself and the four children. The Phoenix was balancing itself on the gilt back of the chair, swaying backwards and forwards and up and down, as you may see your own domestic parrot do. I mean the grey one with the red tail. All eyes were on the stage, where the lobster was delighting the audience with that gem of a song, ‘If you can’t walk straight, walk sideways!’ when the Phoenix murmured warmly—
‘No altar, no fire, no incense!’ and then, before any of the children could even begin to think of stopping it, it spread its bright wings and swept round the theatre, brushing its gleaming feathers against delicate hangings and gilded woodwork.
It seemed to have made but one circular wing-sweep, such as you may see a gull make over grey water on a stormy day. Next moment it was perched again on the chair-back—and all round the theatre, where it had passed, little sparks shone like tinsel seeds, then little smoke wreaths curled up like growing plants—little flames opened like flower-buds. People whispered—then people shrieked.
‘Fire! Fire!’ The curtain went down—the lights went up.
‘Fire!’ cried every one, and made for the doors.
‘A magnificent idea!’ said the Phoenix, complacently. ‘An enormous altar—fire supplied free of charge. Doesn’t the incense smell delicious?’
The only smell was the stifling smell of smoke, of burning silk, or scorching varnish.