“Yes,” said Robin, “and the City is as much ours as if we were the Magician himself. Meg, who was the Magician? What was he?”
“I don’t know,” said Meg. “Nobody knows. He is that—that——” She gave a sudden, queer little touch to her forehead and one to her side. “That, you know, Rob! The thing that thinks—and makes us want to do things and be things. Don’t you suppose so, Rob?”
“The thing that made us want so to come here that we could not bear not to come?” said Robin. “The thing that makes you make up stories about everything, and always have queer thoughts?”
“Yes—that!” said Meg. “And every one has some of it; and there are such millions of people, and so there is enough to make the Great Magician. Robin, come along; let us go to the palace the picture Genius built, and see what his people put in it. Let us be part of the fairy story when we go anywhere. It will make it beautiful.”
They took their fairy story with them and went their way. They made it as much the way of a fairy story as possible. They found a gondola with a rich-hued, gay-scarfed gondolier, and took their places.
“Now we are in Venice,” Meg said, as they shot smoothly out upon the lagoon. “We can be in any country we like. Now we are in Venice.”
Their gondola stopped, and lay rocking on the lagoon before the palace’s broad white steps. They mounted them, and entered into a rich, glowing world, all unknown.
They knew little of pictures, they knew nothing of statuary, but they went from room to room, throbbing with enjoyment. They stopped before beautiful faces and happy scenes, and vaguely smiled, though they did not know they were smiling; they lingered before faces and figures that were sad, and their own dark little faces grew soft and grave. They could not afford to buy a catalogue, so they could only look and pity and delight or wonder.
“We must make up the stories and thoughts of them ourselves,” Robin said. “Let’s take it in turns, Meg. Yours will be the best ones, of course.”
