"Mum, now," said Marjon, "we can't do anything against that braying. But never mind. We have two of them now—The Star Song and The Autumn Song. At this rate we shall get rich. And I'll make something yet out of The Father Song; but in the morning, I think—not to-night. We've earned at least our day's wages, and we can go on a lark with contented minds. Will you go, Jo?"
"Marjon," said Johannes, musingly, hesitating an instant before he consented, "do you know who Pluizer is?"
"No!" said Marjon, bluntly.
"Do you know what he would say?"
"Well?" asked Marjon, with indifference.
"That you are altogether impossible."
"Impossible? Why?"
"Because you cannot exist, he would say. Such beings do not and cannot exist."
"Oh, he must surely mean that I ought only to steal and swear and drink gin. Is that it? Because I'm a circus-girl, hey?"
"Yes, he would say something like that. And he would also call this about the Father nothing but rot. He says the clouds are only wetness, and the sunshine quiverings, and nothing else; that they could be the expression of anything is humbug."