“Who are you?” said the girl.
Now, once for all, I am not going to be bothered to tell you how it was that the girl could understand Anthea and Anthea could understand the girl. You, at any rate, would not understand me, if I tried to explain it, any more than you can understand about time and space being only forms of thought. You may think what you like. Perhaps the children had found out the universal language which everyone can understand, and which wise men so far have not found. You will have noticed long ago that they were singularly lucky children, and they may have had this piece of luck as well as others. Or it may have been that... but why pursue the question further? The fact remains that in all their adventures the muddle-headed inventions which we call foreign languages never bothered them in the least. They could always understand and be understood. If you can explain this, please do. I daresay I could understand your explanation, though you could never understand mine.
So when the girl said, “Who are you?” everyone understood at once, and Anthea replied—
“We are children—just like you. Don’t be frightened. Won’t you show us where you live?”
Jane put her face right into the Psammead’s basket, and burrowed her mouth into its fur to whisper—
“Is it safe? Won’t they eat us? Are they cannibals?”
The Psammead shrugged its fur.
“Don’t make your voice buzz like that, it tickles my ears,” it said rather crossly. “You can always get back to Regent’s Park in time if you keep fast hold of the charm,” it said.
The strange girl was trembling with fright.
Anthea had a bangle on her arm. It was a sevenpenny-halfpenny trumpery thing that pretended to be silver; it had a glass heart of turquoise blue hanging from it, and it was the gift of the maid-of-all-work at the Fitzroy Street house.