And there they stood in a circle still holding hands, as though they were playing Ring-o’-Roses or the Mulberry Bush. Just six people hand in hand in a wood. That sounds simple, but then you must remember that they did not know where the wood was, and what’s more, they didn’t know when then wood was. There was a curious sort of feeling that made the learned gentleman say—
“Another dream, dear me!” and made the children almost certain that they were in a time a very long while ago. As for little Imogen, she said, “Oh, my!” and kept her mouth very much open indeed.
“Where are we?” Cyril asked the Psammead.
“In Britain,” said the Psammead.
“But when?” asked Anthea anxiously.
“About the year fifty-five before the year you reckon time from,” said the Psammead crossly. “Is there anything else you want to know?” it added, sticking its head out of the bag formed by Anthea’s blue linen frock, and turning its snail’s eyes to right and left. “I’ve been here before—it’s very little changed.”
“Yes, but why here?” asked Anthea.
“Your inconsiderate friend,” the Psammead replied, “wished to find some home where they would be glad to have that unattractive and immature female human being whom you have picked up—gracious knows how. In Megatherium days properly brought-up children didn’t talk to shabby strangers in parks. Your thoughtless friend wanted a place where someone would be glad to have this undesirable stranger. And now here you are!”
“I see we are,” said Anthea patiently, looking round on the tall gloom of the forest. “But why here? Why now?”
“You don’t suppose anyone would want a child like that in your times—in your towns?” said the Psammead in irritated tones. “You’ve got your country into such a mess that there’s no room for half your children—and no one to want them.”