Next day mother had a quiet talk with cook, and cook said she
didn't mind if she stayed on a bit, just to see.

But meantime the question of the muddy carpet had been gone into
thoroughly by father and mother. Jane's candid explanation that
the mud had come from the bottom of a foreign tower where there was
buried treasure was received with such chilling disbelief that the
others limited their defence to an expression of sorrow, and of a
determination 'not to do it again'. 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