The Psammead put its head on one side and turned its snail's eyes
from one to the other.

'Not so dusty,' it said dreamily. 'But really, Robert, you're not
quite such an angel as you look.' Robert almost blushed.

The wings were very big, and more beautiful than you can possibly
imagine - for they were soft and smooth, and every feather lay
neatly in its place. And the feathers were of the most lovely
mixed changing colours, like the rainbow, or iridescent glass, or
the beautiful scum that sometimes floats on water that is not at
all nice to drink.

'Oh - but can we fly?'Jane said, standing anxiously first on one
foot and then on the other.

'Look out!' said Cyril; 'you're treading on my wing.'

'Does it hurt?' asked Anthea with interest; but no one answered,
for Robert had spread his wings and jumped up, and now he was
slowly rising in the air. He looked very awkward in his
knickerbocker suit - his boots in particular hung helplessly, and
seemed much larger than when he was standing in them. But the
others cared but little how he looked - or how they looked, for
that matter. For now they all spread out their wings and rose in
the air. Of course you all know what flying feels like, because
everyone has dreamed about flying, and it seems so beautifully easy
- only, you can never remember how you did it; and as a rule you
have to do it without wings, in your dreams, which is more clever
and uncommon, but not so easy to remember the rule for. Now the