“All right.”

Wasting no time, giving her no chance to change her mind, little Jon got into the bed, which seemed much softer than his own. He heaved another sigh, screwed his head into the pillow and lay examining the battle of chariots and swords and spears which always went on outside blankets, where the little hairs stood up against the light.

“It wasn’t anything, really , was it?” he said.

From before her glass his mother answered:

“Nothing but the moon and your imagination heated up. You mustn’t get so excited, Jon.”

But, still not quite in possession of his nerves, little Jon answered boastfully:

“I wasn’t afraid, really, of course!” And again he lay watching the spears and chariots. It all seemed very long.

“Oh! Mum, do hurry up!”

“Darling, I have to plait my hair.”

“Oh! not tonight. You’ll only have to unplait it again tomorrow. I’m sleepy now; if you don’t come, I shan’t be sleepy soon.”

His mother stood up white and flowey before the winged mirror: he could see three of her, with her neck turned and her hair bright under the light, and her dark eyes smiling. It was unnecessary, and he said:

“Do come, Mum; I’m waiting.”

“Very well, my love, I’ll come.”