“There it is, then, Mother!” cried Wolf, almost peevishly. “Can’t you see?⁠ ⁠… the tall stone one there⁠ ⁠… no! over there⁠ ⁠… nearer the Tower,” and he pointed with his stick.

“I want to go up to it,” said Mrs. Solent obstinately, “and so does Gerda. She told me so just now. We’re both sick to death of swinging long-legged girls. I don’t want to see any more frills or garters for the rest of my life.”

“Well, come on, then,” said Wolf petulantly. “You can climb over this, can’t you, Mother? I suppose Bob Weevil’s making himself useful at the swings, eh?”

Whatever demon it was that made him indulge in this jocularity, its result was immediate.

Gerda turned on him fiercely. “Don’t be so vulgar, Wolf. Bob’s playing cricket, and so’s Lobbie. You ought to know better than to make remarks like that!”