“Perhaps I was

mistaken. The mouse—er—the mouse woke up—”

“You told us that.”

The figure continued, speaking with greater rapidity even than

before:

“And looked about it, and found the view so lovely that it said it

would never live in a pocket again, but would divide its time in

future between the fields and houses. So it pricked its whiskers up,

and the squirrel curled its tail over its back to avoid any places

that still were damp, and the rabbit polished its big front teeth on

the grass and said it was quite pleased to have a stump instead of a

tail as a memento of a memorable occasion when they had all been

nearly drowned together, and—they all skipped up to the top of the

high chalk cliffs as dry as a bone and as happy as—”

He broke off in the middle of the enormous sentence to say a most

ridiculous and unnecessary thing. “Come in,” he said, just as though

there was some one knocking at the door. But no single head was

turned. If there was an entry it was utterly ignored.

“Happy as what?”

“As you,” the figure went on faster than ever. “And that’s why

England to-day is an island of quite a respectable size, and why

everybody pretends it’s dry and comfortable and cosy, and why people

never leave it except to go away for holidays that cannot possibly be

avoided.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” began an awful voice behind the chair.

“And why to this day,” he continued as though he had not heard, “a

squirrel always curls its tail above its back, why a rabbit wears a

stump like a pen wiper, and why a mouse lives sometimes in a house and

sometimes in a field, and—”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” clanged the slow, awful voice in a

tone that was meant to be heard distinctly, “but it’s long gone

‘arf-past six, and—”

“Time for bed,” added the figure with a sound that was like the

falling of an executioner’s axe. And, as if to emphasise the arrival

of the remorseless moment, the clock just then struck loudly on the

mantelpiece—seven times.

But for several minutes no one stirred. Hope, even at such moments,

was stronger than machinery of clocks and nurses. There was a general

belief that somehow or other the moment that they dreaded, the moment

that was always coming to block their happiness, could be evaded and

shoved aside. Nothing mechanical like that was wholly true. Daddy had

often used queer phrases that hinted at it: “Some day—A day is

coming—A day will come”; and so forth. Their belief in a special Day

when no one would say “Time” haunted them already. Yet, evidently this

evening was not the momentous occasion; for when Tim mentioned that

the clock was fast, the figure behind the chair replied that she was

half an hour overdue already, and her tone was like Thompson’s when he

said, “Dinner’s served.” There was no escape this time.

Accordingly the children slowly disentangled themselves; they rose

and stretched like animals; though all still ignored the figure behind

the chair. A ball of stuff unrolled and became Maria. “Thank you,

Daddy,” she said. “It was just lovely,” said Judy. “But it’s only the

beginning, isn’t it?” Tim asked. “It’ll go on to-morrow night?” And

the figure, having escaped failure by the skin of its teeth, kissed

each in turn and said, “Another time—yes, I’ll go on with it.”

Whereupon the children deigned to notice the person behind the chair.

“We’re coming up to bed now, Jackman,” they mentioned casually, and

disappeared slowly from the room in a disappointed body, robbed,

unsatisfied, but very sleepy. The clock had cheated them of something

that properly was endless. Maria alone made no remark, for she was

already asleep in Jackman’s comfortable arms. Maria was always

carried.

“Time’s up,” Tim reflected when he lay in bed; “time’s always up. I

do wish we could stop it somehow,” and fell asleep somewhat gratified

because he had deliberately not wound up his alarum-clock. He had the

delicious feeling—a touch of spite in it—that this would bother Time

and muddle it.