But there she is at eight when she had had four years' experience
from the day of first seeing her father leaping before the bull
and thinking it was perfectly natural that he should leap before
the bull. She had learnt a tremendous lot in that second four years.
She knew at eight that the world did not belong to her father and
that on that night of the storm Flora was right to call her a fool
for believing that he could stop the storm. She knew he was not
nearly so wonderful as she used to think he was; but he was still
enormously wonderful and, which she thought rather curious, she
began to see that he rather liked showing her how wonderful he was.
He could sharpen a pencil wonderfully, and he could eat a herring
wonderfully. The thing discovered was that he was very proud of
how wonderfully he could sharpen a pencil or eat a herring. Strange
father!

"Who sharpened that pencil? Your mother? H'nf! I should think so!
No woman can sharpen a pencil. Now look at me. Watch. I hold it
in my left hand, see? Arm supported against my body. Now look how
I cut at it. Bold, strong strokes, see? No niggling at it as if
a mouse was nibbling it; long, bold sweeps, slashes. See! Look at
that. Ah, drat! That's because I was holding it down for you to
see. Watch again. There! There, that's the way to sharpen a pencil.
Look at that. Do you see that long, firm point? See how clean and
long those strokes are? That's the way to sharpen a pencil. Show
that to your mother."

He was as pleased with himself and as proud as if he had turned
the pencil into gold.