the giraffe so that they can eat all the tops of the trees in
Kensington Gardens. These things are in every sense above me.
Such, anyhow, was the young man who did not believe in fairy tales;
and by a curious coincidence he entered the room when I had just
finished looking through a pile of contemporary fiction, and had
begun to read "Grimm's Fairy tales" as a natural consequence.

The modern novels stood before me, however, in a stack; and you can
imagine their titles for yourself. There was "Suburban Sue: A Tale
of Psychology," and also "Psychological Sue: A Tale of Suburbia";
there was "Trixy: A Temperament," and "Man-Hate: A Monochrome," and all
those nice things. I read them with real interest, but, curiously enough,
I grew tired of them at last, and when I saw "Grimm's Fairy Tales"
lying accidentally on the table, I gave a cry of indecent joy.
Here at least, here at last, one could find a little common sense.
I opened the book, and my eyes fell on these splendid and satisfying
words, "The Dragon's Grandmother." That at least was reasonable;
that at least was true. "The Dragon's Grandmother!" While I was
rolling this first touch of ordinary human reality upon my tongue,
I looked up suddenly and saw this monster with a green tie standing
in the doorway.

. . . . .

I listened to what he said about the society politely enough,
I hope; but when he incidentally mentioned that he did not believe
in fairy tales, I broke out beyond control. "Man," I said,
"who are you that you should not believe in fairy tales?
It is much easier to believe in Blue Beard than to believe in you.
A blue beard is a misfortune; but there are green ties which are sins.