“No, but—” She stopped, and bent her head. Her experience had not been so simple. “I have thought sometimes—” She could not finish—broke off abruptly. There was a beating pause, during which neither of them dared look at the other. She broke it. She asked him what he did out here alone.
“I live,” he said, “very much as I did. I read—in three tongues; I paint rarely; I do a great deal of work. At night I write my book. And then—you come.”
“And what is your book?”
“It began as Memoirs—in three volumes, but those have stopped. There was plenty to say, but after certain experiences which came to me here—singular enough experiences—nothing in it seemed worth while. Now I call it Despoina, after the principal character. Despoina, or the Lore of Proserpine.”
“Who is Despoina?” She showed him that she had the answer already.
He looked at her, smiling with his eyes. “You are Despoina.”
“Oh,” said she, “I thought I was Queen Mab.”
“It is the same thing. Despoina means the Lady—the Lady of the Country. She is a great fairy. The greatest.”
It was now for her to smile at him, which she did a little wistfully. “Your Despoina is either too much fairy, or not enough. She does very humdrum things. She has done mischief; now she is going to repair it. She is going to be married.”
He was watching her quietly, and took her news quietly.