“Yes.”

“What did you do with that?”

“Burned it.”

“Oh! but why?”

“Because you are a witch—and witches must be burned with all their flowers.”

“Are you going to burn me?”

He put his hand on her cool arm.

“Feel! The flames are lighted.”

“You may! I don't care!”

She took his hand and laid her cheek against it; yet, to the music, which had begun again, the tip of her shoe was already beating time. And he said: