“Why, so are we!” cried Dorothy in surprise. “But you needn’t be so impolite.”
“She is a Princess, too, and do you mean to stand there and tell me that that young ragbag is a Prince?” Percy Vere stared at Tatters long and earnestly and then, rolling up his eyes murmured feelingly:
“A Prince of rags and scraps and patches,
And then they talk to us of matches!
The Prince of what? The Prince of where
He has a bird’s nest in his—er in his—”
“Hair,” giggled Dorothy. Poor Tatters blushed to his ears and hurriedly tried to smooth out his hair with his fingers.
“Come on!” cried Grampa indignantly. “They’re crazy!”
“If you’ll believe he’s a Prince, I’ll believe she’s a princess,” put in a soft voice and Urtha, who had been listening anxiously to the sharp speeches on both sides, danced up to the Forgetful Poet.
“That’s fair enough,” agreed Percy Vere, smiling at the little flower fairy:
“You believe in us, and we’ll believe in you,
And if you say so I’ll believe that six and one are—are—?”
“Two,” said Dorothy, “only they’re eight. You mustn’t mind Percy’s forgetting. You see, he is a poet,” she explained hastily.
“Let me out! Let me out! What’s all this noise?”