“No!” she knew by the way he held his head on one side and looked at her, that he was very much in earnest indeed.
I must tell you that when Mrs Coo said ‘no,’ it went off into a soft sound that was almost like ‘coo’; indeed most of her talking, and of Mr Coo’s too, sounded like that, which is the reason, I daresay, that many people would not have understood their conversation. But it would be rather tiresome to write “no,” or other words, with double o’s at the end, so I will leave it to be fancied, which will do just as well. There is a great deal of conversation in the world which careless people don’t understand; a great deal which no one can understand properly, however much they try; but also a great deal that one can get to understand, if one tries, even without the gift which the dear fairy bestowed on the very lucky prince in the long ago story. I forget his name, but I daresay some of you remember it. The gift was the power to understand all that the beasts and birds say.
This very morning the wind has been talking to me a good deal—it was the south wind, and her stories are always very sweet, though sometimes sad, yet I understand a good deal of them.
After this second “No,” Mr and Mrs Coo sat looking at each other for a moment or two, without speaking.
Then said Mr Coo—
“It must be something—serious. For Mary scarcely ever cries.”
“True,” said Mrs Coo, “true.”
But she did not say anything more, only she too held her head on one side and kept her reddy-brown eyes fixed on Mr Coo. They seemed to ask, “What is to be done?” only as she nearly always depended on Mr Coo for settling what was to be done or if anything was to be done, she did not need to say the words.
“Mary scarcely ever cries,” he repeated. “There were large drops, quite large ones on her cheeks.”
“As large as raindrops?” asked Mrs Coo.