She asked him what he did out here alone.
"I live," he said, "very much as I did. I read--in three tongues; I paint
rarely; I do a great deal of work. At night I write my book. And then--you
come."
"And what is your book?"
"It began as Memoirs--in three volumes, but those have stopped. There was
plenty to say, but after certain experiences which came to me here--
singular enough experiences--nothing in it seemed worth while. Now I call
it Despoina, after the principal character. Despoina, or the Lore of
Proserpine."
"Who is Despoina?" She showed him that she had the answer already.
He looked at her, smiling with his eyes. "You are Despoina."
"Oh," said she, "I thought I was Queen Mab."
"It is the same thing. Despoina means the Lady--the Lady of the Country.
She is a great fairy. The greatest."
It was now for her to smile at him, which she did a little wistfully.
"Your Despoina is either too much fairy, or not enough. She does very
humdrum things. She has done mischief; now she is going to repair it. She
is going to be married."
He was watching her quietly, and took her news quietly.
"Yes, so I learned. There was a youth here who told me."
She stopped him, flushing wildly.
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