"Well, you see," Cyril was saying, "it's just the old bother. Mother can't believe the real true truth about the carpet, and——"
"You speak sooth, O Cyril!" remarked the Phœnix, coming out from the cupboard where the black-beetles lived, and the torn books, and the broken slates, and odd pieces of toys that had lost the rest of themselves. "Now hear the wisdom of the Phœnix, the son of the Phœnix."
"There's a society called that," said Cyril.
"Where is it? And what is a society?" asked the bird.
"It's a sort of joined-together lot of people—a sort of brotherhood—a kind of—well, something very like your temple, you know, only quite different."
"I take your meaning," said the Phœnix. "I would fain see these calling themselves Sons of the Phœnix."
"But what about your words of wisdom?"
"Wisdom is always welcome," said the Phœnix.
"'PRETTY POLLY!' REMARKED THE LAMB."