bilingual; now they aren't a bit. They could read any of those books upstairs in the schoolroom."
"So could I," said Arrietty quickly, "if someone could hold them, and turn the pages. I'm not a bit bilingual. I can read anything."
"Could you read out loud?"
"Of course," said Arrietty.
"Would you wait here while I run upstairs and get a book now?"
"Well," said Arrietty; she was longing to show off; then a startled look came into her eyes. "Oh—" she faltered.
"What's the matter?" The boy was standing up now. He towered above her.
"How many doors are there to this house?" She squinted up at him against the bright sunlight. He dropped on one knee.
"Doors?" he said. "Outside doors?"
"Yes."
"Well, there's the front door, the back door, the gun room door, the kitchen door, the scullery door ... and the french windows in the drawing room."
"Well, you see," said Arrietty, "my father's in the hall, by the front door, working. He ... he wouldn't want to be disturbed."
"Working?" said the boy. "What at?"
"Getting material," said Arrietty, "for a scrubbing brush."
"Then I'll go in the side door"; he began to move away but turned suddenly and came back to her. He stood a moment, as though embarrassed, and then he said: "Can you fly?"
"No," said Arrietty, surprised; "can you?"
His face became even redder. "Of course not," he said angrily; "I'm not a fairy!"
"Well, nor am I," said Arrietty, "nor is anybody. I don't believe in them."
He looked at her strangely. "You don't believe in them?"
"No," said Arrietty; "do you?"
"Of course not!"
Really, she thought, he is a very angry kind of boy. "My mother believes in them," she said, trying to appease him. "She thinks she saw one once. It was when she was a girl and lived with her parents behind the sand pile in the potting shed."
He squatted down on his heels and she felt his breath on her face. "What was it like?" he asked.
"About the size of a glowworm with wings like a butterfly. And it had a tiny little face, she said, all alight and moving like sparks and tiny moving hands. Its face was changing all the time, she said, smiling and sort of shimmering. It seemed to be talking, she said, very quickly—but you couldn't hear a word...."
"Oh," said the boy, interested. After a moment he asked: "Where did it go?"
"It just went," said Arrietty. "When my mother saw it, it seemed to be caught in a cobweb. It was dark at the time. About five o'clock on a winter's evening. After tea."
"Oh," he said again and picked up two petals of cherry blossom which he folded together like a sandwich and ate slowly. "Supposing," he said, staring past her at the wall of the house, "you saw a little man, about as tall as a pencil, with a blue patch in his trousers, halfway up a window curtain, carrying a doll's tea cup—would you say it was a fairy?"
"No," said Arrietty, "I'd say it was my father."
"Oh," said the boy, thinking this out, "does your father have a blue patch on his trousers?"
"Not on his best trousers. He does on his borrowing ones."
"Oh," said the boy again. He seemed to find it a safe sound, as lawyers do. "Are there many people like you?"
"No," said Arrietty. "None. We're all different."
"I mean as small as you?"
Arrietty laughed. "Oh, don't be silly!" she said. "Surely you don't think there are many people in the world your size?"
"There are more my size than yours," he retorted.
"Honestly—" began Arrietty helplessly and laughed again. "Do you really think—I mean, whatever sort of a world would it be? Those great chairs ... I've seen them. Fancy if you had to make chairs that size for everyone? And the stuff for their clothes ... miles and miles of it ... tents of it ... and the sewing! And their great houses, reaching up so you can hardly see the ceilings ... their great beds ... the
food
they eat ... great, smoking mountains of it, huge bogs of stew and soup and stuff."
"Don't you eat soup?" asked the boy.
"Of course we do," laughed Arrietty. "My father
"So could I," said Arrietty quickly, "if someone could hold them, and turn the pages. I'm not a bit bilingual. I can read anything."
"Could you read out loud?"
"Of course," said Arrietty.
"Would you wait here while I run upstairs and get a book now?"
"Well," said Arrietty; she was longing to show off; then a startled look came into her eyes. "Oh—" she faltered.
"What's the matter?" The boy was standing up now. He towered above her.
"How many doors are there to this house?" She squinted up at him against the bright sunlight. He dropped on one knee.
"Doors?" he said. "Outside doors?"
"Yes."
"Well, there's the front door, the back door, the gun room door, the kitchen door, the scullery door ... and the french windows in the drawing room."
"Well, you see," said Arrietty, "my father's in the hall, by the front door, working. He ... he wouldn't want to be disturbed."
"Working?" said the boy. "What at?"
"Getting material," said Arrietty, "for a scrubbing brush."
"Then I'll go in the side door"; he began to move away but turned suddenly and came back to her. He stood a moment, as though embarrassed, and then he said: "Can you fly?"
"No," said Arrietty, surprised; "can you?"
His face became even redder. "Of course not," he said angrily; "I'm not a fairy!"
"Well, nor am I," said Arrietty, "nor is anybody. I don't believe in them."
He looked at her strangely. "You don't believe in them?"
"No," said Arrietty; "do you?"
"Of course not!"
Really, she thought, he is a very angry kind of boy. "My mother believes in them," she said, trying to appease him. "She thinks she saw one once. It was when she was a girl and lived with her parents behind the sand pile in the potting shed."
He squatted down on his heels and she felt his breath on her face. "What was it like?" he asked.
"About the size of a glowworm with wings like a butterfly. And it had a tiny little face, she said, all alight and moving like sparks and tiny moving hands. Its face was changing all the time, she said, smiling and sort of shimmering. It seemed to be talking, she said, very quickly—but you couldn't hear a word...."
"Oh," said the boy, interested. After a moment he asked: "Where did it go?"
"It just went," said Arrietty. "When my mother saw it, it seemed to be caught in a cobweb. It was dark at the time. About five o'clock on a winter's evening. After tea."
"Oh," he said again and picked up two petals of cherry blossom which he folded together like a sandwich and ate slowly. "Supposing," he said, staring past her at the wall of the house, "you saw a little man, about as tall as a pencil, with a blue patch in his trousers, halfway up a window curtain, carrying a doll's tea cup—would you say it was a fairy?"
"No," said Arrietty, "I'd say it was my father."
"Oh," said the boy, thinking this out, "does your father have a blue patch on his trousers?"
"Not on his best trousers. He does on his borrowing ones."
"Oh," said the boy again. He seemed to find it a safe sound, as lawyers do. "Are there many people like you?"
"No," said Arrietty. "None. We're all different."
"I mean as small as you?"
Arrietty laughed. "Oh, don't be silly!" she said. "Surely you don't think there are many people in the world your size?"
"There are more my size than yours," he retorted.
"Honestly—" began Arrietty helplessly and laughed again. "Do you really think—I mean, whatever sort of a world would it be? Those great chairs ... I've seen them. Fancy if you had to make chairs that size for everyone? And the stuff for their clothes ... miles and miles of it ... tents of it ... and the sewing! And their great houses, reaching up so you can hardly see the ceilings ... their great beds ... the
food
they eat ... great, smoking mountains of it, huge bogs of stew and soup and stuff."
"Don't you eat soup?" asked the boy.
"Of course we do," laughed Arrietty. "My father
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