All the gentlemen fairies were so much elated by this that they began to brighten up, and settle their ruffs, and fall into graceful attitudes, and think of sparkling things to say; because every one of them knew, from the glance of her eyes in his direction, that he was one whose conversation was brilliant; every one knew there could be no mistake about its being himself that she meant. The way she looked just proved it. Altogether it was more than Robin Goodfellow could stand, for it was Gauzita who was deporting herself in this unaccountable manner, swinging on lily stems, and "going on," so to speak, with several parties at once, in a way to chill the blood of any proper young lady fairy—who hadn't any partner at all. It was Gauzita herself.
He made his way into the very centre of the group.
"Gauzita!" he said. He thought, of course, she would drop right off her lily stem; but she didn't. She simply stopped swinging a moment, and stared at him.
"Gracious!" she exclaimed. "And who are you?"
"Who am I?" cried Mr. Goodfellow, severely. "Don't you remember me?"
"No," she said, coolly; "I don't, not in the least."
Robin Goodfellow almost gasped for breath. He had never met with anything so outrageous in his life.
"You don't remember me?" he cried. "Me! Why, it's impossible!"
"Is it?" said Gauzita, with a touch of dainty impudence. "What's your name?"
Robin Goodfellow was almost paralyzed. Gauzita took up a midget of an eyeglass which she had dangling from a thread of a gold chain, and she stuck it in her eye and tilted her impertinent little chin and looked him over. Not that she was near-sighted—not a bit of it; it was just one of her tricks and manners.