They were dressed alike in blue jerseys and knickers; their brown legs were bare, and each had her hair plaited and pinned up in what was called a horse’s tail. Behind them came Mrs. Fairfield with the tray.

“Carefully, children,” she warned. But they were taking the very greatest care. They loved being allowed to carry things. “Have you said good-morning to your father?”

“Yes, grandma.” They settled themselves on the bench opposite Stanley and Beryl.

“Good morning, Stanley!” Old Mrs. Fairfield gave him his plate.

“Morning, mother! How’s the boy?”

“Splendid! He only woke up once last night. What a perfect morning!” The old woman paused, her hand on the loaf of bread, to gaze out of the open door into the garden. The sea sounded. Through the wide-open window streamed the sun on to the yellow varnished walls and bare floor. Everything on the table flashed and glittered. In the middle there was an old salad bowl filled with yellow and red nasturtiums. She smiled, and a look of deep content shone in her eyes.

“You might cut me a slice of that bread, mother,” said Stanley. “I’ve only twelve and a half minutes before the coach passes. Has anyone given my shoes to the servant girl?”

“Yes, they’re ready for you.” Mrs. Fairfield was quite unruffled.

“Oh, Kezia! Why are you such a messy child!” cried Beryl despairingly.

“Me, Aunt Beryl?” Kezia stared at her. What had she done now? She had only dug a river down the middle of her porridge, filled it, and was eating the banks away. But she did that every single morning, and no one had said a word up till now.

“Why can’t you eat your food properly like Isabel and Lottie?” How unfair grown-ups are!

“But Lottie always makes a floating island, don’t you, Lottie?”

“I don’t,” said Isabel smartly. “I just sprinkle mine with sugar and put on the milk and finish it. Only babies play with their food.”

Stanley pushed back his chair and got up.

“Would you get me those shoes, mother? And, Beryl, if you’ve finished, I wish you’d cut down to the gate and stop the coach. Run in to your mother, Isabel, and ask her where my bowler hat’s been put. Wait a minute—have you children been playing with my stick?”

“No, father!”

“But I put it here,” Stanley began to bluster. “I remember distinctly putting it in this corner. Now, who’s had it? There’s no time to lose. Look sharp! The stick’s got to be found.”

Even Alice, the servant girl, was drawn into the chase. “You haven’t been using it to poke the kitchen fire with by any chance?”

Stanley dashed into the bedroom where Linda was lying. “Most extraordinary thing. I can’t keep a single possession to myself. They’ve made away with my stick, now!”

“Stick, dear? What stick?” Linda’s vagueness on these occasions could not be real, Stanley decided. Would nobody sympathise with him?

“Coach! Coach, Stanley!” Beryl’s voice cried from the gate.

Stanley waved his arm to Linda.