"Yes, I'm just going to get in," she said; "but what do they mean when they nod at me like that?"
"They mean, of course, what I tell you—'Get in,'" said the cuckoo.
"Why don't they say so, then?" persisted Griselda, getting in, however, as she spoke.
"Griselda, you have a very great——" began the cuckoo, but Griselda interrupted him.
"Cuckoo," she exclaimed, "if you say that again, I'll jump out of the palanquin and run away home to bed. Of course I've a great deal to learn—that's why I like to ask questions about everything I see. Now, tell me where we are going."
"In the first place," said the cuckoo, "are you comfortable?"
"Very," said Griselda, settling herself down among the cushions.
It was a change from the cuckoo's boudoir. There were no chairs or seats, only a number of very, very soft cushions covered with green silk. There were green silk curtains all round, too, which you could draw or not as you pleased, just by touching a spring. Griselda stroked the silk gently. It was not "fruzzley" silk, if you know what that means; it did not make you feel as if your nails wanted cutting, or as if all the rough places on your skin were being rubbed up the wrong way; its softness was like that of a rose or pansy petal.
"What nice silk!" said Griselda. "I'd like a dress of it. I never noticed that the palanquin was lined so nicely," she continued, "for I suppose it is the one from Lady Lavander's mantelpiece? There couldn't be two so exactly like each other."
The cuckoo gave a sort of whistle.