Neither of the wood-pigeons spoke for a moment or two. They only looked at each other. Then said Mr Coo,—
“You are not a stupid child, Mary, yet you are rather slow and dull sometimes. How about your feather cloak?”
“Oh,” said Mary again, “that’s no good. If you know about the cloak, and I suppose you do, in some queer way, for I’ve never told you what it’s like, you must know that it isn’t white at all. It’s made up of all sorts of shades of bluey-grey—like your feathers—even pinky-looking here and there.”
“Ah,” said Mr Coo. “Yes, I am aware of that.” Mary opened her eyes.
“Then what do you mean?” she asked.
This time Mrs Coo replied. She never liked to be left out of the conversation for long.
“You cannot have read or heard many fairy stories, my dear.”
“Yes indeed I have, heaps,” said Mary, more and more puzzled. “Tell me why you think that.”
“We cannot explain,” said Mrs Coo. “It’s against the rules. There are some things that humans must find out for themselves,” and Mary understood that it would be no use questioning more.
Then, as she was now quite rested, the wood-pigeons proposed that they should take her round the bowers. They hopped on in front, Mary following. And oh, how pretty the bowers were! They were alike and yet different. Inside each, hung, quite high up, a little coloured lamp. It did not seem as if anything were burning in it: it was more as if some of the wonderful light in the whole place, whose source was one of the secrets, had been caught into the lamp and tinted with its exquisite colour. Such colours as Mary had never dreamt of, even though they somehow reminded her of the countless shades of her own little cloak. And there were no two lamps the same, nor were there any two bowers the same, as I have said.