“What is it that you are going to see to?” asked Philomène with interest.
“I am in great difficulties about housing a mole,” replied the little agent in a troubled voice, “I let part of the front lawn to him, but the gardener interfered. He is a most tiresome old man.”
“Godmother says he doesn’t know much about gardening,” remarked Philomène, “and I know that whenever I ask him the name of a flower he just goes on muttering, ‘What’s this we call it now? What’s this we call it?’ till either I remember it myself, or someone else comes up and tells me. But Godmother keeps him on because he has been here a long time, and I expect the other man and the boy really do all the work. Besides, I once heard her say to my Daddy that the one thing he did understand was grass, and that he makes her lawns as good as any in the county. She seemed quite pleased about it.”
The elf nodded her head sagely. “That is just the trouble,” she replied, “I mean from the point of view of a land- and house-agent. He is so careful of the lawns that he won’t allow any mole to rent them. However, I must see what I can do for my tenant in some out of the way corner. And now I must really say good afternoon, and ask you to put off our next meeting till to-morrow. Oh, by the way though, before I go you had better tell me your name—Sweet William has forgotten to mention it.”
“My name is Philomène, Philomène Isolde,” said the little girl, “and please, what is yours?”
“Speedwell,” answered the other, and she spread her wings, nodded a friendly good-bye, and flew away. Philomène stood watching her flight till the glittering wings disappeared behind the rosemary hedge, after which she made her way to the wilderness of currant and gooseberry bushes behind the house. Here stood a tub, and a see-saw, and a shed, but before she had made up her mind whether to go to sea in the tub, or turn the shed into a Red Indian wigwam, her attention was distracted by what sounded like the twittering of two birds at once in a currant bush near by.
“And yet it doesn’t sound quite like an ordinary bird either,” thought Philomène, and she went close up to the bush. One bird there certainly was, perched on a leafy twig and twittering shrilly, but it was Speedwell who was sitting upon another branch, and arguing with the bird. As Philomène came up both stopped talking, seemingly quite out of breath.
“What have you done with the letter?” asked Philomène smiling, “did you throw it away when you started house-hunting for the mole?”
The elf cocked her head on one side, and looked up with small bright eyes; her shimmering wings were folded, and her little green shoes peeped from beneath her dress of tussore-coloured silk. “I do not understand you,” said she, “I don’t even know who you are. Oh, yes, I do though, you must be the little girl who was to arrive yesterday; the stable cat told me you were expected. But we have not met till this moment.”
“But I was speaking to you only a few minutes ago at the dove-cot, and I gave you Sweet William’s letter of introduction!” exclaimed Philomène in amazement.