“And when you read the Pilgrim’s Progress?" said John Holt.
“And the first afternoon when we listened to Jones and Jerry, and you said there was a City Beautiful?” said Meg.
“And there was" said Robin, “and we’ve been there.”
“It was just this time in the afternoon,” said Meg, looking about her, “the red light was dying away, for I could not see to read any more.”
And for a little while they sat in the Straw Parlour while the red light waned, and afterwards when they spoke of it, they found they were all thinking of the same thing, and it was of the last day they had spent at the Enchanted City, when they had gone about together in a strange, tender, half-sad mood, loitering through the white palaces, lingering about the clear pools of green sea- water, where strange creatures swam lazily or darted to and fro; looking their last at pictures and stories in marble, and listening to the tinkle of water plashing under great tropical leaves and over strange mosses; strolling through temples and past savage huts, and gazing in final questioning at mysterious, barbarous faces; and at last passing through the stately archway, and being borne away on the waters of the great lake.
