"I haven't an idea," she said gravely, "I think I must have done it
so the fairies wouldn't prick their feet on any new sorrow. One has
to be careful of the fairies' feet."
St. George nodded. It was a charming reason for the left hand to
give the right, and he was not deceived.
"Look at him," said St. George, almost reverently, "he looks like a
shade of a god that has come back from the other world and found his
shrine dishonoured."
Some echo of St. George's words reached the old man and he caught
at it, smiling. It was as if he had just been thinking what he
spoke.
"There are not enough shrines," he said gently, "but there are far
too many gods. You will find it so."
Something in his words stirred St. George strangely. There was about
the old creature an air of such gentleness, such supreme repose and
detachment that, even in that place of quiet, his presence made a
kind of hush. He was old and pallid and fragile, but there lingered
within him, while his spirit lingered, the perfume of all fine and
gentle things, all things of quietude.
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