The open space which they entered was paved with pink marble, and around it were two rows of large, pink statues, at least life-size and beautifully sculptured.  All were set upon nicely carved pink pedestals.  They were, of course, statues of Pinky men and women, and all had bands of pink metal around their foreheads, in the center of each band being a glistening pink jewel.

About the middle of the open space inside the statues, which appeared to be the public meeting place of the Pinkies, was a small, low house, domed like all the other houses but built of a coarse pink stone instead of the fine marble to be seen everywhere else.  It had no ornamentation, being exceedingly plain in appearance.  No banners floated from it; no flowers grew near it.

“Here,” said one of their guides as the procession halted before the little stone building, “is the palace of Tourmaline, who is our Queen.”

“What, that little cabin?” exclaimed Trot.

“Of course.  Did you suppose a palace would be like one of our handsome residences?” asked the woman, evidently surprised.

“I thought it would be better,” said the girl.  “All the palaces I’ve seen were splendid.”

“A splendid palace!” exclaimed one of the Pinkies, and then they looked at one another in amazement and seemed to doubt that their ears had heard aright.

“These intruders are very peculiar people,” remarked a man in the crowd.

“They seem very ignorant, poor things!” said another in reply.

“Come!” commanded the woman who led the party.  “You three must follow me to the presence of Tourmaline.  The people must wait outside, for there is no room for them in the palace.”

So they followed her through the low archway, and in a room beyond, very simply furnished, sat a young girl engaged in darning a pair of pink stockings.  She was a beautiful girl of about seventeen years of age, not fat like all the rest of the Pinkies but slender and well formed according to our own ideas of beauty.  Her complexion was not a decided pink, but a soft, rosy tint not much deeper than that of Trot’s skin.  Instead of a silken gown furbelowed like all the others they had seen women wear in this land, Tourmaline was dressed in a severely plain robe of coarse pink cloth much resembling bedticking.  Across her brow, however, was a band of rose gold, in the center of which was set a luminous pink jewel which gleamed more brilliantly than a diamond.  It was her badge of office and seemed very incongruous when compared with her poor rainment and simple surroundings.

As they entered, the girl sighed and laid down her work.  Her expression was patient and resigned as she faced her audience.  “What is it, Coralie?” she asked the woman.

“Here are three strange people, Tourmaline,” was the reply, “who say they have entered our country through the Fog Bank.  They tell a queer story of an escape from the Blueskins, so I decided to bring them to you, that you may determine their fate.”