drawing a deep breath, he rubbed his hands and smiled at her, saying,
"What's the next thing you'd like to do?"

Sara saw that, though he was still rather bashful, Schlorge had taken
a great fancy to her. It pleased her very much; he was such a useful
and accommodating person. While she was trying to decide which one of
several places she would ask him to show to her, the Plynck remarked,
gently,

"Avrillia's at home."

Avrillia--that was it! Sara clapped her hands again, and this time no
harm was done; for her cheek-dimples were safe in the dimple-holder,
and her hand-dimples were on the outside, so that the clapping only
jarred them a little. It was funny, she thought, that Schlorge scorned
to work on hand-dimples, and even the Snimmy scarcely noticed them.
But it didn't worry her. Avrillia--that was it. She had come this time
especially to see Avrillia.

"Do you know where she lives?" she asked Schlorge.

"Avrillia? I should say so. Everybody knows Avrillia. At least I
know her to speak to. As to what goes on inside of her, I can't say.
She's queer. She writes poetry, you know."

"But she's nice?" asked Sara anxiously.

"Oh, she's pleasant-spoken," said Schlorge, "and pretty. Some like her,
and some don't. The Plynck, here," he spoke respectfully, though
dissentingly, "thinks the sun rises and sets in her. For myself, I