'I
vote we take it in turns to squint through the keyhole.'
They did--in the order of their ages. The Phoenix, being the
eldest by some thousands of years, was entitled to the first peep.
But--
'Excuse me,' it said, ruffling its golden feathers and sneezing
softly; 'looking through keyholes always gives me a cold in my
golden eyes.'
So Cyril looked.
'I see something grey moving,' said he.
'It's a zoological garden of some sort, I bet,' said Robert, when
he had taken his turn. And the soft rustling, bustling, ruffling,
scuffling, shuffling, fluffling noise went on inside.
'_I_ can't see anything,' said Anthea, 'my eye tickles so.'
Then Jane's turn came, and she put her eye to the keyhole.
'It's a giant kitty-cat,' she said; 'and it's asleep all over the
floor.'
'Giant cats are tigers--father said so.'
'No, he didn't. He said tigers were giant cats. It's not at all
the same thing.'
'It's no use sending the carpet to fetch precious things for you if
you're afraid to look at them when they come,' said the Phoenix,
sensibly. And Cyril, being the eldest, said--
'Come on,' and turned the handle.
The gas had been left full on after tea, and everything in the room
could be plainly seen by the ten eyes at the door. At least, not
everything, for though the carpet was there it was invisible,
because it was completely covered by the hundred and ninety-nine
beautiful objects which it had brought from its birthplace.
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