each. There were pictures on the walls, mostly representing young
ladies, more or less obviously in love, supported by rustic properties.
I have noticed that the girl's first love is the monopoly of the
Victorian painter, whereas the boy's is that of the novelist, but I do
not know the reason of this.

There was a slight clap of thunder and Richard entered. He would have
been very obviously a wizard even without the thunder, and seemed much
less innocent about his magic than the witch. He had pale hair, a pale
face, and eyes that did not open wide without a certain effort on the
part of the brows.

"You are despising my ornaments," he said to Sarah Brown. "I admire them
awfully. I don't like really clever art. Do you know, it makes me
sneeze."

Directly he spoke, one saw that he was making the usual effort of magic
to appear real. Witches and wizards lead difficult lives because they
have no ancestry working within them to prompt them in the little
details. Whenever you see a person being unusually grown-up, suspect
them of magic. You can always notice witches and wizards, for instance,
after eight o'clock at night, pretending that they are not proud of
sitting up late. It is all nonsense about witches being night birds;
they often fly about at night, indeed, but only because they are like
permanent children gloriously escaped for ever from their Nanas.

"This picture," added Richard, "seems to me very beautiful." The picture
might have cost a shilling originally, framed, or it might have been
attached to a calendar once. It was a landscape so thick in colouring
and so lightless that it failed to give an outdoor impression at all.