But father said (and mother
agreed with him, because mothers have to agree with fathers, and
not because it was her own idea) that children who coated a carpet
on both sides with thick mud, and when they were asked for an
explanation could only talk silly nonsense--that meant Jane's
truthful statement--were not fit to have a carpet at all, and,
indeed, SHOULDN'T have one for a week!
So the carpet was brushed (with tea-leaves, too) which was the only
comfort Anthea could think of) and folded up and put away in the
cupboard at the top of the stairs, and daddy put the key in his
trousers pocket. 'Till Saturday,' said he.
'Never mind,' said Anthea, 'we've got the Phoenix.'
But, as it happened, they hadn't. The Phoenix was nowhere to be
found, and everything had suddenly settled down from the rosy wild
beauty of magic happenings to the common damp brownness of ordinary
November life in Camden Town--and there was the nursery floor all
bare boards in the middle and brown oilcloth round the outside, and
the bareness and yellowness of the middle floor showed up the
blackbeetles with terrible distinctness, when the poor things came
out in the evening, as usual, to try to make friends with the
children. But the children never would.
The Sunday ended in gloom, which even junket for supper in the blue
Dresden bowl could hardly lighten at all.
Pages:
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70