Miss Emily said she could well believe it but that was not the point at issue.

Miss Cost said that each little novelty had been conceived in a spirit of reverence.

Miss Emily did not dispute the conception. The distribution, however, was a matter of commercial enterprise, was it not?

At this juncture a customer came in and bought a plastic Green Lady.

When she had gone, Miss Cost said she hoped that Miss Pride entertained no doubts about the efficacy of the cures.

‘If I do,’ said Miss Emily, ‘it is of no moment. It is the commercial exploitation that concerns us. That, I cannot tolerate.’ She examined Miss Cost for a second or two and her manner changed slightly. ‘I do not question your faith in the curative properties of the Spring,’ she said. ‘I do not suggest, I assure you, that in exploiting public credulity, you do so consciously and cynically.’

‘I should hope not!’ Miss Cost burst out. ‘I! I! My asthma – ! I, who am a living witness! Ae-oh!’

‘Quite so. Moreover, when the Island has been restored to its former condition, I shall not prevent access to the Spring any more than I shall allow extravagant claims to be canvassed. It will not be closed to the public. Quite on the contrary.’

‘They will ruin it! The vandalism! The outrages! Even now with every precaution. The desecration!’

‘That can be attended to.’

‘Fairy ground,’ Miss Cost suddenly announced, ‘is holy ground.’

‘I am unable to determine whether you adopt a pagan or a Christian attitude,’ said Miss Emily. She indicated a rhyme-sheet which was clothes-pegged to a line above the counter.

Ye olde wayes, it read, were wise old wayes

(Iron and water, earthe and stone)

Ye Hidden Folke of antient dayes

Ye Greene Companions’ Runic Layes

Wrought Magick with a Bone.

Ye plashing Falles ther Secrette holde.

(Iron and water, earthe and stone)

On us as on those menne of olde

Their mighte of healing is Bestowed

And wonders still are showne.

O, thruste your handes beneath the rille

(Iron and water, earthe and stone)

And itte will washe awaye your ille

With neweborn cheere your bodie fille

That antient Truth bee knowne.

‘Who,’ asked Miss Emily, fixing her gaze upon Miss Cost, ‘is the author of this doggerel?’

‘It is unsigned,’ she said loudly. ‘These old rhymes –’

‘The spelling is spurious and the paper contemporary. Does it express your own views, Miss Cost?’

‘Yes,’ said Miss Cost, shutting her eyes. ‘It does. A thousand times, yes.’

‘So I imagined. Well, now,’ Miss Emily briskly continued, ‘you know mine. Take time to consider. There is one other matter.’

Her black kid forefinger indicated a leaflet advertising the Festival. ‘This,’ she said.