your speech is. I’ll be wise, and content myself with that. One look might pull down, In irrevocable ruin, all the lovely fabric of my dream. By the way, are you a Cookie?” 

 “A what?” 

 “Cookie. Tourist. No, of course you’re not. No tour would be imbecile enough to touch here. The question is: How did you get here?” 

 “Ah, that’s my secret.” 

 “Or, rather, are you here at all? Perhaps you’re just a figment of the overstrained ear. And if I undertook to look, there wouldn’t be anything there at all.” 

 “Of course, if you don’t believe in me, I’ll fly away on a sunbeam.” 

 “Oh, please! Don’t say that! I’m doing my best.” 

 So panic-stricken was the appeal that she laughed again, in spite of herself. 

 “Ah, that’s better! Now, come, be honest with me. You’re not pretty, are you?” 

 “Me? I’m as lovely as the dawn.” 

 “So far, so good. And have you got long golden—that is to say, silken hair that floats almost to your knees?” 

 “Certainly,” she replied, with spirit. 

 “Is it plentiful enough so that you could spare a little?” 

 “Are you asking me for a lock of my hair?” she queried, on a note of mirth. “For a stranger, you go fast.” 

 “No; oh, no!” he protested. “Nothing so familiar. I’m offering you a bribe for conversation at the price of, say, five hairs, if you can sacrifice so many.” 

 “It sounds delightfully like voodoo,” she observed. “What must I do with them?” 

 “First, catch your hair. Well up toward the head, please. Now pull it out. One, two, three—yank!” 

 “Ouch!” said the voice above. 

 “Do it again. Now have you got two?” 

 “Yes.” 

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