'Well—there is no nightingale worthy to hear it!'
'It is true,' I agreed, 'O trusting little earth-born rose!'
'Do you know why the rose has thorns?' suddenly asked the Sphinx. Of course I knew, but I always respect a joke, particularly when it is but half-born—humourists always prefer to deliver themselves—so I shook my head.
'To keep off the nightingales, of course,' said the Sphinx, the tone of her voice holding in mocking solution the words 'Donkey'
and 'Stupid,'—which I recognised and meekly bore.
'What an excellent idea!' I said. 'I never thought of it before. But don't you think it's a little unkind? For, after all, if there were no nightin
gales, one shouldn't hear so much about the rose; and there is always the danger that if the rose continues too painfully thorny, the nightingale may go off and seek, say, a more accommodating lily.'
'I have no opinion of lilies,' said the Sphinx.
'Nor have I,' I answered soothingly; 'I much prefer roses—but ... but....'
'But what?'