“Whose palace is this?” she asked.

“The Monarch’s.”

“Might—­might I go in?”

“Certainly.”

What a baffling person!  He agreed to anything, apparently, and yet one never learned anything.  Sara wandered past him, presently, quite subdued by his elegant scorn.

She strayed on into the palace.  She was speechless with admiration—­even if there had been anybody to talk to.  There were numbers of courtiers and ladies-in-waiting about, but nobody seemed in the least surprised to see her, and they all seemed too languid to talk.  Sara heard them exchange a word occasionally, but for the most part they simply stood about, fanning themselves and coiling and uncoiling their springs.  Never, however, had Sara seen such sumptuous costumes.  Such court-trains, and velvet breeches, and rainbow-colored cloaks!

Presently, since nobody seemed to mind, Sara wandered straight into the throne-room; and there sat the Monarch dozing on his throne, while fourteen courtiers took turns in fanning him with their wings.  At Sara’s entrance, however, he awoke with a start; and Sara was terribly startled herself, because it was the first time anybody had really taken any notice of her.

“Bring her some butter!” he commanded.

At his command four of the courtiers drifted away, and presently returned carrying a silvery-white cloth, very rich and lustrous, woven of many thicknesses of milk-weed-silk.  This they spread on the green-tiled floor in a corner of the throne-room, near a little fountain that trickled continually a sort of silver-colored syrup, which made a drowsy sound as it fell.  Then they flew away again, and after a good while returned carrying a pat of butter in a large magnolia petal.  The magnolia petal was about the size of Mother’s best turkey-platter, and as white and fragrant as the magnolias at home.  And the pat of butter was about as large as a veal loaf.  Of course it did not look in the least like a veal loaf; it looked exactly like butter—­a delectable, golden yellow, and all dewy-looking, as it used to come out of the spring-house at Grandmother’s.

“Sit,” said the Monarch, briefly.

Sara sat.

“Eat,” said the Monarch, in the same sleepy but authoritative voice.

Now, Sara was terribly uncomfortable.  To be sure, nothing had ever looked more delicious, and Sara liked butter on bread—­a great deal of it, in fact.  But to eat all butter, without anything to go with it!  Yet she felt it would be dreadfully impolite to refuse; and she could not bear to be thought impolite by all these haughty and elegant persons.  She was just about to say, humbly, “Please, might I have a little bread?” when it occurred to her that she might just taste it, at least.  And oh, how glad she was that she did!  For, of course, you have guessed that it was not just ordinary butter, though it looked exactly like it.  It was not even the plain imaginary kind:  it was enchanted butterfly butter.  And if you have ever seen a monarch butterfly as big as a peacock, sitting on a throne, you know what it tasted like.  The nearest I can come to explaining is to say that it tasted a little like custard and a little like ice-cream and a little like a sort of candy Sara had forgotten the name of.  And it had a fragrance something like that of isthagaria.