"Of course," said I. "Don't see what they ever came away for; I wouldn't,--to be told you've broken things when you haven't, and stopped having tea with the servants in the kitchen, and not allowed to have a dog to sleep with you. But _I've_ known people, too, who've gone there."
The artist stared, but without incivility.
"Well, there's Lancelot," I went on. "The book says he died, but it never seemed to read right, somehow. He just went away, like Arthur. And Crusoe, when he got tired of wearing clothes and being respectable. And all the nice men in the stones who don't marry the Princess, 'cos only one man ever gets married in a book, you know. They'll be there!"
"And the men who never come off," he said, "who try like the rest, but get knocked out, or somehow miss,--or break down or
