Morris. What's his name?
Patricia. We have no names there. You never really know anybody if you know his name.
Morris. What does he look like?
Patricia. I have only met him in the twilight. He seems robed in a long cloak, with a peaked cap or hood like the elves in my nursery stories. Sometimes when I look out of the window here, I see him passing round this house like a shadow; and see his pointed hood, dark against the sunset or the rising of the moon.
Smith. What does he talk about?
Patricia. He tells me the truth. Very many true things. He is a wizard.
Morris. How do you know he's a wizard? I suppose he plays some tricks on you.
Patricia. I should know he was a wizard if he played no tricks. But once he stooped and picked up a stone and cast it into the air, and it flew up into God's heaven like a bird.
Morris. Was that what first made you think he was a wizard?
Patricia. Oh, no. When I first saw him he was tracing circles and pentacles in the grass and talking the language of the elves.