Clarence was noticing, not for the first time, that her full face was shaped like a shield, also that two fascinating little creases came in it when she smiled, and her pretty grey eyes had a soft sparkle in them. "I must be jolly careful," he told himself.
"I should prefer, Miss Heritage," said Mrs. Wibberley-Stimpson, who had overheard the last sentence, "that Ruby was not encouraged to fill her head with Fairy tales. I don't think them good for her."
"Oh, come, Mater!" protested Clarence, unable to resist the rôle of Champion. "Where on earth is the harm of them."
"Surely, Clarence," Edna put in instructively, "there is this harm—they give such an utterly false impression of what life really is! That's why I've never been able to take any interest in them."
"More likely," said Clarence, "because you've got no imagination."
"If I hadn't," retorted Edna, "I should hardly have got through the Poetry I have. Most of Browning and Alfred Austin, and all Ella Wheeler Wilcox! It's only the lowest degree of imagination that invents things that couldn't possibly have happened!"
"They may have left off, Edna, but they happened once," declared Ruby. "I know there used to be Fairyland somewhere, with Kings and Queens and Fairy Godmothers and enchanted castles and magicians and Ogres and Dragons and things in it. And Miss Heritage believes it, too—don't you, Miss Heritage, dear?"
"I'm much mistaken in Miss Heritage, my dear," said Mr. Stimpson gallantly, "if her head isn't too well screwed on (if she'll allow me to say so) to believe in any such stuff. All very well for the Nursery, you know, but not to be taken seriously, or ... why, what's that? Most extraordinary noise! Seems to come from outside, overhead."
They could all hear a strange kind of flapping whirr in the air, it grew nearer and louder and then suddenly ceased.
"Aeroplane," pronounced Clarence, drawing the window curtains and looking out. "Miles away by now, though. Terrific pace they travel at. Too dark to see anything."