“I wish you’d come in a different dress, if you had to come,” said Robert; “but it’s no use my wishing anything.”
“No,” said the Queen. “I wish I was dressed—no, I don’t—I wish they were dressed properly, then they wouldn’t be so silly.”
The Psammead blew itself out till the bag was a very tight fit for it; and suddenly every man, woman, and child in that crowd felt that it had not enough clothes on. For, of course, the Queen’s idea of proper dress was the dress that had been proper for the working-classes 3,000 years ago in Babylon—and there was not much of it.
“Lawky me!” said the marrow-selling woman, “whatever could a-took me to come out this figure?” and she wheeled her cart away very quickly indeed.
“Someone’s made a pretty guy of you—talk of guys,” said a man who sold bootlaces.
“Well, don’t you talk,” said the man next to him. “Look at your own silly legs; and where’s your boots?”
“I never come out like this, I’ll take my sacred,” said the bootlace-seller. “I wasn’t quite myself last night, I’ll own, but not to dress up like a circus.”
The crowd was all talking at once, and getting rather angry. But no one seemed to think of blaming the Queen.
Anthea bounded down the steps and pulled her up; the others followed, and the door was shut.
“Blowed if I can make it out!” they heard. “I’m off home, I am.”