isn't her really. That's only my fun. It's a statue really.'
'Aren't statues very dear?' asked Guy.
'Very,' said Sir Christopher—'very, very dear.'
He led the way up the winding iron stair and showed them the red-room. Its walls were covered with bits of red lobster-shells, overlapping like a fish's scales or the plates of armour.
'How resplendid!' said Mabel; 'I believe you're a mighty magician.'
'No,' he said; 'at least—no, not exactly. There's only one more room.'
The other room was a bedroom, quite dull and plain, with whitewashed walls and painted deal furniture.
'I like the pearly halls best,' said Mabel: 'they're more eloquent;' and they all went down to the room where the seventy-two candles of the Christmas-tree were burning steadily and brightly, though there was no one to see them.
'Won't you call your little girl?' said Phyllis. 'The candles won't last so very long; they're the cheap kind.'
Sir Christopher twisted his fingers together.
'It's no use calling her,' he said. 'Would you mind—do you mind leaving the tree for to-night?
