Florrie. Yes, but you mustn't play.
L. That's very hard, Florrie; why mustn't I, if you may?
Florrie. Oh, I may, because I'm little, but you mustn't, because you're—(hesitates for a delicate expression of magnitude).
L. (rudely taking the first that comes). Because I'm big? No; that's not the way of it at all, Florrie. Because you're little, you should have very little play; and because I'm big I should have a great deal.
Isabel and Florrie (both). No—no—no—no. That isn't it at all. (Isabel sola, quoting Miss Ingelow.) 'The lambs play always—they know no better.' (Putting her head very much on one side.) Ah, now—please—please—tell us true; we want to know.
L. But why do you want me to tell you true, any more than the man who wrote the 'Arabian Nights?'
Isabel. Because—because we like to know about real things; and you can tell us, and we can't ask the man who wrote the stories.
L. What do you call real things?
Isabel. Now, you know! Things that really are.
L. Whether you can see them or not?