“What were they?”
“She was crying,” Mr Coo replied, “crying and leaning against the window, and the window was open, and I heard her say, ‘He doesn’t believe me, he doesn’t believe me. It’s too bad of the Cooies—’ she calls us the Cooies, you know, my dear.”
“Yes,” said Mrs Coo, nodding her head gently, “I know.”
“It’s too bad of the Cooies,” she said again, Mr Coo went on. ”‘I believe they’re not Cooies at all, but very unkind, tricky fairies.’ She said that—she really did.”
“Dear, dear, it’s very sad, very sad indeed,” said Mrs Coo, and her voice was exceedingly low and mournful. “Mary to think that of us. Something must be done, Mr Coo, something must be done.”
“Of course it must,” he agreed. “I must go back then this very afternoon and try to see her and find out all about the trouble.”
“Shall I come too?” asked Mrs Coo.
“Certainly, if you like,” said Mr Coo.
In his heart, he was very pleased to have her company, but he was not very fond of allowing that he was not quite able to manage everything by himself.
“Certainly, if you like,” he repeated, “but just as you choose.”