"I never bend," said the bronze Monk-reading-a-book. "Life is earnest. I read a book by candle. I am never idle."
The Cat-made-of-worsted grinned to himself.
"You've got a hinge in your back," said he, "they open you in the middle; your head flies back. How the blood must run down. And then you're full of brimstone matches. He! he!" and the Cat-made-of-worsted grinned out loud. The Boy-leaning-against-a-greyhound spoke again, and sighed:
"I am of Parian, you know, and there is no one else here of Parian except yourself."
"And the greyhound," said the Parian girl.
"Yes, and the greyhound," said he eagerly. "He belongs to me. Come, a glass case is nothing to it. We could roam; oh, we could roam!"
"I don't like roaming."
"Then we could stay at home, and lean against the greyhound."
"No," said the Parian girl, "I don't like that."
"Why?"