“You have a pair of wild swans there, Arthur.”
I said I had.
“Swan’s wings,” he repeated. “Swan’s wings;” and as he uttered the words his body relaxed more than ordinary, until the middle of his back was supported against the wall, his feet and face stuck out towards me.
“Did you know,” said he, “that some women had swan’s wings with which to fly?”
Now I had heard of swan maidens, but he distinctly said “women,” and the tone of his voice made me feel that he was not referring to the flimsy, incredible creatures of fairy tales, but to women of flesh and blood, of human stature and nature, such women as might come into the library and stand by Mr Morgan’s fire—only, so far as I knew, no women ever did. So I said “No.”
“They have,” said he, “or they had in the young days of Elias Griffiths, who was an old man when I was a lad.”
Here he sighed and paused, but apologised, though not exactly to me, by saying: “But that”—meaning, I suppose, the sigh—“is neither here nor there. Besides, I must not trespass in Mr Stodham’s province.” For Mr Stodham was then passing, and I made way for him.
Mr Morgan continued:
“It was on a Thursday....”
Now I held Mr Morgan in great respect, but the mention of Thursday at the opening of a story about swan maidens was too much for me.