Alas, it grieves me more than I could ever express to record so sad an instance of benightment in a people in so many ways so truly enlightened and broadminded. But I take pride in saying that, when I had attained to something like a real knowledge of the Droman tongue, I described to Lathendra Lepraylya herself, at the first opportunity and in the most glowing and eulogistical language at my command, though confining myself strictly to the truth, how beautifully we did those things in the World Above.
I had (yes, I confess it) flattered myself that I would thus be instrumental in bringing about a great reform, in righting a cruel injustice. Vain vision, vain alluring dream! As I went on with my panegyric, I saw wonder and amazement gathering in the beautiful eyes of Lathendra Lepraylya. When I had finished, she sat for some moments like one dumfounded. And, when at last she spoke, it was, as old Rabelais has it, as though her tongue was walking on crutches. What she said was:
"My Lord, Bill Carter!"
And again after a pause:
"My Lord, Bill Carter!"
At this point I noticed that Milton was smiling at me with great apparent amusement.
"But, then," Lepraylya added, "it must be an allegory. I confess, however, that the meaning, to my poor intellect at any rate, is involved in the deepest obscurity. Yes, an allegory it must be. Surely this world that you have described to me exists only in the imagination; surely it is an imaginary world inhabited by imaginary sane people that are in reality lunatics!"
But this is anticipating.
There we stood before Lathendra Lepraylya, the Queen of Drome.
And what a vision of loveliness was that upon which we stood gazing! Strange, too, was the beauty of Lathendra Lepraylya, what with her violet hair. Yes, I wrote violet, and I mean violet. (Her age I put at about thirty.) The eyes were large and lustrous, were of the lightest gray, the pallid color of them and the violet of her tresses enhancing the weird loveliness of her.