Instead he saw an expanse of rolling meadowland, and he felt the warm sun beating down on his head. Twink was sitting beside him on the green grass, staring about in utter bewilderment. Before them stood the clown, smiling broadly.
"It's magic," breathed Twink, "pure magic."
"Well, it's magic, all right," answered the clown, "but I wouldn't say how pure it is."
"But what has become of our library, and how did we get here, and how can this be real, and why is it you're not upstairs in my room?" The questions tumbled out almost faster than Twink could ask them.
"One question at a time, please," said the clown, "and I'll try to answer. Your library is right where it always is. This can be real because it is real. And I am not in your room because I belong here."
"But, Twoffle," protested Tom, "we left you in Twink's room not fifteen minutes ago."
"You didn't leave me there, and don't call me Twoffle," objected the clown.
By this time Twink and Tom were standing up and brushing off their clothes. "But you are our Twoffle, you know," stated the girl. "We have had you for years and years."