The Phœnix was gone.
"Look here," said Cyril, "I've read about fires in papers; I'm sure it's all right. Let's wait here, as father said."
"We can't do anything else," said Anthea, bitterly.
"Look here," said Robert, "I'm not frightened—no, I'm not. The Phœnix has never been a skunk yet, and I'm certain it'll see us through somehow. I believe in the Phœnix!"
"The Phœnix thanks you, O Robert," said a golden voice at his feet, and there was the Phœnix itself, on the Wishing Carpet.
"Quick!" it said, "stand on those portions of the carpet which are truly antique and authentic—and——"
A sudden jet of flame stopped its words. Alas! the Phœnix had unconsciously warmed to its subject, and in the unintentional heat of the moment had set fire to the paraffin with which that morning the children had anointed the carpet. It burned merrily. The children tried in vain to stamp it out. They had to stand back and let it burn itself out. When the paraffin had burned away it was found that it had taken with it all the darns of Scotch heather-mixture fingering. Only the fabric of the old carpet was left—and that was full of holes.
"Come," said the Phœnix, "I'm cool now."
The four children got on to what was left of the carpet. Very careful they were not to leave a leg or a hand hanging over one of the holes. It was very hot—the theatre was a pit of fire. Everyone else had got out.
Jane had to sit on Anthea's lap.