“What place is this?” asked the Psammead, shooting its eyes out and turning them slowly round.
“It’s a sitting-room, of course,” said Robert.
“Then I don’t like it,” said the Psammead.
“Never mind,” said Anthea kindly; “we’ll take you anywhere you like if you want us to. What was it you were going to say upstairs when I said the others wouldn’t like it if I stayed talking to you without them?”
It looked keenly at her, and she blushed.
“Don’t be silly,” it said sharply. “Of course, it’s quite natural that you should like your brothers and sisters to know exactly how good and unselfish you were.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” said Jane. “Anthea was quite right. What was it you were going to say when she stopped you?”
“I’ll tell you,” said the Psammead, “since you’re so anxious to know. I was going to say this. You’ve saved my life—and I’m not ungrateful—but it doesn’t change your nature or mine. You’re still very ignorant, and rather silly, and I am worth a thousand of you any day of the week.”
“Of course you are!” Anthea was beginning but it interrupted her.
“It’s very rude to interrupt,” it said; “what I mean is that I’m not going to stand any nonsense, and if you think what you’ve done is to give you the right to pet me or make me demean myself by playing with you, you’ll find out that what you think doesn’t matter a single penny. See? It’s what I think that matters.”