“He is in the power of a wicked witch, like the one who enchanted Jorinde and Joringel in Grimm!” I said, and tried to go to sleep and thought a little. Lady Scilly isn’t old, like the German witch, but I remember what the Ollendorff man said to me about her being a “fairy,” and I know there is some connection between them. Fairies are those who would do harm if they had the power; witches have the power, but only because they are old and don’t care for the things they cared for when they were young. Ariadne will never be a fairy when she grows up, she will always be too silly, and get put upon in society, though in private life she is quite up to her rights, and talks as loud as any one and doesn’t trouble to be die-away. Men never see that side of girls, mercifully they are able to keep it out of sight till they are at least married, and on the pig’s back, as Peter says. It is the unromantic things they are ashamed of. Ariadne wouldn’t mind Simon knowing she had appendicitis, but not for worlds that she had a corn on her foot and had to have it cut, or a chilblain, and it burst.
Presently she woke up and said, “Will any one tell me why a woman like that should be allowed to ruin his young life?”
“All young men have nine lives like a cat, there will be eight left for you to ruin, when you get him—but you never will.” I always add this not to raise false hopes. “And, goodness me, you can’t expect to get a young man all to yourself, as fresh and shining as a new pin!”
“Yes, I do!” said Ariadne crossly. “I want a safety-pin even. I am a new pin myself—I have never loved anybody but Simon, now have I?”
I didn’t answer that, but said I did wish we might turn over and go to sleep, when Christina rapped on the wall with a hairbrush and begged us to be quiet.
“Yes. All right! We will!” I yelled, and I certainly wouldn’t have said another word, but Ariadne began again, five minutes later.
“Tempe, why do these wretched married women—I’d be ashamed to be one—always want everybody at once? She has got Mr. Pawky, and——”
“Mr. Pawky is only for money,” I said. I was not going to tell her about her dear Simon paying Lady Scilly’s bills as well as poor Pawky.
“And Simon’s for love, then—oh dear! And George for literature. I am prettier than her, Tempe? Say I am—oh say I am, I want to hear you say it.”
“I won’t say it. You are far too conceited already.”