Everybody knows Avrillia. At least I
know her to speak to. As to what goes on inside of her, I can't say.
She's queer. She writes poetry, you know."
"But she's nice?" asked Sara anxiously.
"Oh, she's pleasant-spoken," said Schlorge, "and pretty. Some like her,
and some don't. The Plynck, here," he spoke respectfully, though
dissentingly, "thinks the sun rises and sets in her. For myself, I
like folks of a more sensible turn."
"Even fairies?" asked Sara, half inclined to protest.
For the first time Schlorge was almost rude to her. "Well, do you take
me for a human? And I can do something besides write poetry on
rose-leaves." He replaced the forceps in his hair with obvious
professional pride--and, of course, when he put them in in that way,
they stayed.
But Sara echoed delightedly, "On rose-leaves?"
"Well, go and see her, then," said Schlorge, ungraciously. Then,
relenting a little, "Come on, I'll take you--if you're stuck on
verse-writing females."
He took Sara by the hand, and of course his hand was kinder than his
voice. To Sara's joy they struck into the curliest of the little paths,
which slipped suddenly through a half-hidden arch in the hawthorn
hedge, and then skipped confidingly right up to Avrillia's door.
Avrillia's house was right on the Verge, but the Verge was quite wide
at this point, and very lovely.
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