"Well," she said, with a smile and a second glance at my legs, "we should like you—we expect you to—to—to become in fact, like one of us—to conform——"
"Oh, quite so," I said, without as yet catching her meaning thoroughly; "to conform—yes—certainly—to all the customs of the country I have adopted."
"To all of them, mind?"
"Yes."
"Then you consent to this trifling sacrifice. You have no objection to—to be operated upon?"
"Operated upon!" I cried in astonishment. "What?—How?—I don't quite catch your majesty's meaning."
"Well, Captain Toughyarn," said her majesty, "if I must be more explicit, the fact is, that legs are out of fashion here, only tails are worn in this country. If you really wish to marry our daughter, you must submit to an operation."
"W-h-e-w!" whistled I, the real nature of the sacrifice dawning upon me for the first time. "So that is your meaning!"
"Precisely. Do you refuse?"
Now, I always prided myself particularly on my legs. In my youth they were the admiration of the sex; even now they are far from contemptible, and to give them in exchange for a tail was of all things the furthest from my thoughts. I did not know what to answer.