“Now,” they continued, “we can talk comfortably—do you want to ask us anything?”
“Of course I do,” said Mary. “A great big thing. I want to know how I can keep my feather perfectly white.”
“The Queen told you almost as much as we can,” was the reply. “She said it would be your own fault if it dropped out or got spoilt in any way.”
“I know she did,” said Mary, “but that’s very puzzling. I can’t go about with my hand to my head holding it in.”
“You don’t need to do so. As the Queen spoke of ‘fault’—‘your own fault’”—said Mr Coo, “I would advise you to think over what is most likely to be a fault of yours.”
“I know,” said Mary quickly. “Hasty temper—that’s my worst fault. Auntie always says so. But sometimes when I’ve been very unhappy about it, she has said any way it doesn’t last long; she has said it to comfort me, you see, and it’s true—I scarcely ever feel cross with anybody for more than a minute.”
“A minute may leave many minutes of trouble behind it,” said Mrs Coo, gently.
“I know that,” said Mary. “Once at home poor baby got a knock that was black and blue for a week, just because we’d given him a little push to get him out of the way.”
“Then be on your guard,” the wood-pigeons replied, “and this day week come to the meeting-place in the forest again, at the same time. You will have no difficulty.”
“And shall I not see you till then?” asked Mary, rather dolefully, “a whole week?”