Penelope Craig reflected a moment.

"Do you--know--how to wait?" she demanded, with a significant little
accent on the word "know."

"I've waited in vain. No white pony has ever come, and if it trotted in
now--why, I don't want one any longer. I tell you, Penny"--tapping an
emphatic forefinger on the other's knee--"you never get your wishes until
you've out-grown them."

"You've reached the mature age of three-and-twenty"--drily. "It's a
trifle early to be so definite."

"Not a bit! I want my wishes _now_, while I'm young and can enjoy
them--lots of money, and amusement, and happiness! They'll be no good to
me when I'm seventy or so!"

"Even at seventy," remarked Penelope sagely, "wealth is better than
poverty--much. And I can imagine amusement and happiness being quite
desirable even at three score years and ten."

Nan Davenant grimaced.

"Philosophers," she observed, "are a highly irritating species."

"But what do you want, my dear? You're always kicking against the pricks.
What do you really _want_?"

The coals slipped with a grumble in the grate and a blue flame shot up