“That is a pretty place for an Undine,” said Otho.

“The idea of an Undine makes me shiver,” said Lawrence.  “Think what a cold-blooded, unearthly being she would be!”

“Not after she had a soul!” exclaimed Isabella.

“An Undine with a soul!” cried Lawrence.  “I conceive of them as malicious spirits, who live and die as the bubbles of water rise and fall.”

“You talk as if there were such things as Undines,” said Celia.  “I remember once trying to read the story of Undine, but I never could finish it.”

“It ends tragically,” remarked Otho.

“Of course all such stories must,” responded Lawrence; “of course it is impossible to bring the natural and the unnatural together.”

“That depends upon what you call the natural,” said Otho.

“We should differ, I suppose,” said Lawrence, “if we tried to explain what we each call the natural.  I fancy your ‘real life’ is different from mine.”

“Pictures of real life,” said Isabella, “are sometimes pictures of horses and dogs, sometimes of children playing, sometimes of fruits of different seasons heaped upon one dish, sometimes of watermelons cut open.”

“That is hardly your picture of real life,” said Lawrence, laughing,—­“a watermelon cut open!  I think you would rather choose the picture of the Water Fairies from the Duesseldorf Gallery.”

“Why not?” said Isabella.  “The life we see must be very far from being the only life that is.”

“That is very true,” answered Lawrence; “but let the fairies live their life by themselves, while we live our life in our own way.  Why should they come to disturb our peace, since we cannot comprehend them, and they certainly cannot comprehend us?”

“You do not think it well, then,” said Isabella, stopping in their walk, and looking down,—­“you do not think it well that beings of different natures should mingle?”

“I do not see how they can,” replied Lawrence.  “I am limited by my senses; I can perceive only what they show me.  Even my imagination can picture to me only what my senses can paint.”

“Your senses!” cried Otho, contemptuously,—­“it is very true, as you confess, you are limited by your senses.  Is all this beauty around you created merely for you—­and the other insects about us?  I have no doubt it is filled with invisible life.”

“Do let us go in!” said Celia.  “This talk, just at twilight, under the shade of this shrubbery, makes me shudder.  I am not afraid of the fairies.  I never could read fairy stories when I was a child; they were tiresome to me.  But talking in this way makes one timid.  There might be strollers or thieves under all these hedges.”

They went into the house, through the hall, and different apartments, till they reached the drawing-room.  Isabella stood transfixed upon the threshold.  It was all so familiar to her!—­everything as she had known it before!  Over the mantelpiece hung the picture of the scornful Spanish lady; a heavy bookcase stood in one corner; comfortable chairs and couches were scattered round the room; beautiful landscapes against the wall seemed like windows cut into foreign scenery.  There was an air of ease in the room, an old-fashioned sort of ease, such as the Fogertys must have loved.