"The cover of Punch, you know."
Vague pictures of Mr. Punch surrounded by little dancing figures, an easel, Toby, a lion—surely there was a lion somewhere—flitted across my mind. What on earth had the cover of Punch got to do with the Fairy Queen?
I went over to the little table where lay the latest copy, and came back with it in my hand and knelt down on the floor near the cushion.
The Fairy Queen came close to me and peered over the edge of the paper.
"Look at the fairies," she said, pointing with a tiny indignant finger. "Look at them. They're most dreadfully old-fashioned. Nobody in fairyland looks in the least like that now."
I looked. Certainly the little figures had rather an early-Victorian air about them.
"Of course we should never dream of being tremendously fashionable or anything of that kind. I would not for one moment think of allowing any of my court-ladies to cut their hair short, for instance, or to wear one of those foolish hobble skirts; but nobody, nobody could accuse us of being dowdy. Now tell me, have you ever seen one of us looking like that, or like that?"
"But are you quite sure," I said, not without hesitation, for she was by way of being rather an autocratic and imperious little person and I was the least little bit afraid of her—"are you quite sure that they are fairies?"
"Of course they are," she replied quickly. "What else could they be? Naturally Mr. Punch would have fairies all round him. He loves us. You have no idea how much we have in common."
I didn't reply at once. I was engaged in staring at the familiar design.