"Silly little fool of a golden-haired bride!" and she added, out of subconscious volition: "Silly Bunny!"
She had spoken the last words caressingly, as a naughty boy speaks to a cat before he catches her and tweaks her tail, and the Thing was about to fall into the trap. For a second it hovered on the brass rod, seemed to wait, expectant, undecided.
Then it came down a few inches. It fluttered within reach of Diana's outstretched hand.
But when she closed her hand suddenly, viciously, it winged away again, breathless, frightened, but unharmed. It flew into the center of the room. It made a renewed terrible effort to bloat into a balloon.
And this time it succeeded—partly.
She did not feel exactly what shape it had assumed, but it was something amorphous, flabby, covered all over with soft bumps which were very beastly.
She followed, more determined than ever, and the Thing tried to leap into the air.
It had nearly succeeded when Diana, with quick presence of mind, thought again of Bunny Whipple and Bunny Whipple's silly, golden-haired wife.
