There were five of them (at
least he believed there were five), and though it was eleven o'clock
in the morning, they were dressed as if for the prince's ball in the
story of "Cinderella." Unless on the stage, Peter had never seen such
dresses or such girls.
He heard himself gasp; and afterward, when he and a wave together had
banged the door shut, he hoped that he had said: "I beg your pardon."
He was so confused, however, that he was not at all sure he had not
blurted out "Good Lord!"
For a moment he stood as still as the sea would let him in front of
the door, burning to open it again and see if the girls were really
there. But, of course, he could not do that. He would have been almost
inclined to believe they were wax figures if they had not moved, but
they had moved.
They had been--sprawling is not a word to use in connection with
dryads--yet certainly reclining, in easy chairs and on sofas, and had
started up as the door opened to stare at him. One had laughed. Peter
had shut the door on her laugh. He had brought away a vague impression
that chairs, sofas, and carpet were pale gray, and that the dryads'
dresses of wonderful tints, sparkling with gold and silver and jewels,
had been brilliant as tropical flowers against the neutral background.
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