“But you must forgive me, John. When the disillusion comes, when the fairy story ends, if she is blessed with children, she doesn't mind. Clotilde rushed out of the house, carrying her boy and tugging her girl by the ear. Her teeth were chattering so hard that she had to clench them for fear of biting off her own tongue. I wonder if you will mind very much when I tell you they were suggested by you. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force.
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