what it comes from?"

"Where _does_ England come from?" asked Tim, pausing a moment to stare
into the figure's face. "It's an island, of course--England--but--"

"A piece of land surrounded by water," began the figure, but was not
allowed to finish. A chorus of voices interrupted:

"Make a story of it, please. There's just time. There's half an hour.
It's nice and dark. Ugh! Something very awful or very silly,
please...."

There followed a general scuffle for seats, with bitter complaints
that he only had two pointed knees. Maria was treated with scant
respect. There was also criticism of life--that he had no lap, "no
proper lap," that it was too dark to see his face, that everybody in
turn had got "the best place," but, chiefly, that there was "very
little time." Time was a nuisance always: it either was time to go, or
time to stop, or else there was not time enough. But at length quiet
was established; the big arm-chair resembled a clot of bees upon a
honeycomb; the fire burned dully, and the ceiling was thick with
monstrous fluttering shadows, vaguely shaped.

"Now, please. We've been ready for ages."

A deep hush fell upon the room, and only a sound of confused breathing
was audible. The figure heaved a long, deep sigh as though it suffered
pain, paused, cleared its throat, then sighed again more heavily than
before. For the moment of creation was at hand, and creation is not
accomplished without much travail.