You may well imagine that it was not easy for Sara to look cross in such a strange, delicious place.  But she knew she owed it to the poor little Zizz, so she tried with all her might to think only of fractions and asparagus. (Her mother had an obstinate conviction that that, too, was good for children.)

They were all so interested in listening to the deepening blueness of the sound the Zizz made that they kept quite still.  Suddenly Schlorge thought of something.

“Where’s the Snimmy?” he asked, sharply.

“He’s gone with his wife to bathe the Snoodle,” answered the Echo of the Plynck.  “They have to bathe it every three days, you know, in castor oil.  That’s what keeps it white.  And there isn’t any here.”

“Thank goodness!” thought Sara, who had nearly jumped off the stump at the sound of those baleful syllables.  It would be good to think of, anyhow, she decided; and as she thought of it, the wings of the Zizz began to dry so fast that they fairly sang.  And suddenly it zizzed right out of Schlorge’s forceps and went buzzing straight off to the flowery hedge.

“Well!” said Schlorge, with much satisfaction, “that’s over.”  Then, as Sara’s face twinkled into smiles, he added, excitedly, “Bless my bellows!  She’s still got on her dimples!  Won’t you learn, Sara?  Course I didn’t notice ’em while you frowned.  Come, now—­”

“And it’s time for the Snimmy to be back,” interrupted the Teacup, who had fluttered down and perched on the edge of the moon-dial to see what time it was.  “They said they’d only be gone two hours.”

“Then there’s no time to lose,” said Schlorge.  He pressed Sara’s shoe-button decidedly and she floated softly down upon the blue plush, like a milk-weed seed in the fall.  And then Schlorge deftly took off her dimples—­it felt very funny to have them removed with the forceps—­and put them in the dimple-holder where they belonged.  Then, drawing a deep breath, he rubbed his hands and smiled at her, saying, “What’s the next thing you’d like to do?”

Sara saw that, though he was still rather bashful, Schlorge had taken a great fancy to her.  It pleased her very much; he was such a useful and accommodating person.  While she was trying to decide which one of several places she would ask him to show to her, the Plynck remarked, gently,

“Avrillia’s at home.”

Avrillia—­that was it!  Sara clapped her hands again, and this time no harm was done; for her cheek-dimples were safe in the dimple-holder, and her hand-dimples were on the outside, so that the clapping only jarred them a little.  It was funny, she thought, that Schlorge scorned to work on hand-dimples, and even the Snimmy scarcely noticed them.  But it didn’t worry her.  Avrillia—­that was it.  She had come this time especially to see Avrillia.

“Do you know where she lives?” she asked Schlorge.

“Avrillia?  I should say so.  Everybody knows Avrillia.  At least I know her to speak to.  As to what goes on inside of her, I can’t say.  She’s queer.  She writes poetry, you know.”