s not at all sure. He visualised the scene: the
drawing-room at Chester Terrace. His mother's soft, rustling entrance.
Her affectionate but well-bred greeting. And then the disconcerting
silence with which she would await his explanation of Malvina. The
fact that she was a fairy he would probably omit to mention. Faced by
his mother's gold-rimmed pince-nez, he did not see himself insisting
upon that detail: "A young lady I happened to find asleep on a moor in
Brittany. And seeing it was a fine night, and there being just room in
the machine. And she--I mean I--well, here we are." There would
follow such a painful silence, and then the raising of the delicately
arched eyebrows: "You mean, my dear lad, that you have allowed
this"--there would be a slight hesitation here--"this young person to
leave her home, her people, her friends and relations in Brittany, in
order to attach herself to you. May I ask in what capacity?"

For that was precisely how it would look, and not only to his mother.
Suppose by a miracle it really represented the facts. Suppose that, in
spite of the overwhelming evidence in her favour--of the night and the
moon and the stars, and the feeling that had come to him from the
moment he had kissed her--suppose that, in spite of all this, it turned
out that she wasn't a fairy. Suppose that suggestion of vulgar Common
Sense, that she was just a little minx that had run away from home, had
really hit the mark. Suppose inquiries were already on foot. A hundred
horse-power aeroplane does not go about unnoticed. Wasn't there a law
about this sort of thing--something about "decoying" and "young girls"?
He hadn't "decoyed" her. If anything, it was the other way about. But
would her consent be a valid defence? How old was she? That would be
the question. In reality he supposed about a thousand years or so.
Possibly more. Unfortunately, she didn't look it. A coldly suspicious
magistrate would probably consider sixteen a much better guess. Quite
possibly he was going to get into a devil of a mess over this business.
He cast a glance behind him. Malvina responded with her changeless
smile of ineffable content. For the first time it caused him a
distinct feeling of irritation.

They were almost over Weymouth by this time. He could read plainly the
advertisement posters outside the cinema theatre facing the esplanade:
"Wilkins and the Mermaid. Comic Drama." There was a picture of the
lady co