She gave a little jump; she almost thought she would like to clap her hands.
“Oh, Cooie, dear,” she cried, “that is much nicer than any explanation! Do you really mean that—”
“Sh—softly, please,” he said. “I don’t want you to think I really mean anything. It is just a tiny bit of an idea that I have got leave to put into your head.”
“Leave—got leave,” Mary repeated. “Whom have you got leave from?”
“This place does not all belong to us,” was the reply. “You saw by the sign of the grey feather that I had to get leave to bring you in here. And that is all I can say—at present, any way.”
“But it does mean,” Mary persisted, “it must mean that this is fairy-land?”
“No,” said Mr Coo, “that does not follow. You don’t need to be in the sun to feel the good of its light and warmth.”
“Certainly not,” said Mary, laughing. “There wouldn’t be much left of us in the sun. We’d be frizzled up in a moment, of course, before one could say ‘tic,’ wouldn’t one?”
“Most likely,” replied Mr Coo.
“But still—even if this isn’t fairy-land, it might be close to it?” she went on.