L. We all of us mind you a little too much, Isabel, I’m afraid.

Isabel.  No—­no—­no, indeed.

L. I tell you what, Isabel—­I don’t believe either Sindbad, or
Florrie, or you, ever were in the Valley of Diamonds.

Isabel.  You naughty! when I tell you we were!

L. Because you say you were frightened at the serpents.

Isabel.  And wouldn’t you have been?

L. Not at those serpents.  Nobody who really goes into the valley is ever frightened at them—­they are so beautiful.

Isabel (suddenly serious).  But there’s no real Valley of Diamonds, is there?

L. Yes, Isabel; very real indeed.

Florrie (reappearing).  Oh, where?  Tell me about it.

L. I cannot tell you a great deal about it; only I know it is very different from Sindbad’s.  In his valley, there was only a diamond lying here and there; but, in the real valley, there are diamonds covering the grass in showers every morning, instead of dew:  and there are clusters of trees, which look like lilac trees; but, in spring, all their blossoms are of amethyst.

Florrie.  But there can’t be any serpents there, then?

L. Why not?

Florrie.  Because they don’t come into such beautiful places.

L. I never said it was a beautiful place.

Florrie.  What! not with diamonds strewed about it like dew?

L. That’s according to your fancy, Florrie.  For myself, I like dew better.

Isabel.  Oh, but the dew won’t stay; it all dries!

L. Yes; and it would be much nicer if the diamonds dried too, for the people in the valley have to sweep them off the grass, in heaps, whenever they want to walk on it; and then the heaps glitter so, they hurt one’s eyes.

Florrie.  Now you’re just playing, you know.

L. So are you, you know.

Florrie.  Yes, but you mustn’t play.

L. That’s very hard, Florrie; why mustn’t I, if you may?

Florrie.  Oh, I may, because I’m little, but you mustn’t, because you’re—­(hesitates for a delicate expression of magnitude).

L. (rudely taking the first that comes).  Because I’m big?  No; that’s not the way of it at all, Florrie.  Because you’re little, you should have very little play; and because I’m big I should have a great deal.

Isabel and Florrie (both).  No—­no—­no—­no.  That isn’t it at all.  (Isabel sola, quoting Miss Ingelow.) “The lambs play always—­they know no better.” (Putting her head very much on one side.) Ah, now —­please—­please—­tell us true; we want to know.

L. But why do you want me to tell you true, any more than the man who wrote the “Arabian Nights”?

Isabel.  Because—­because we like to know about real things; and you can tell us, and we can’t ask the man who wrote the stories.