'I'm sure it's much warmer than the seaside in the summer,' said
Anthea. 'Mother always lets us go barefoot then.'

So the Lamb's shoes and socks and gaiters came off, and he stood
digging his happy naked pink toes into the golden smooth sand.

'I'm a little white duck-dickie,' said he--'a little white
duck-dickie what swims,' and splashed quacking into a sandy pool.

'Let him,' said Anthea; 'it can't hurt him. Oh, how hot it is!'

The cook suddenly opened her eyes and screamed, shut them, screamed
again, opened her eyes once more and said--

'Why, drat my cats alive, what's all this? It's a dream, I expect.

Well, it's the best I ever dreamed. I'll look it up in the
dream-book to-morrow. Seaside and trees and a carpet to sit on.
I never did!'

'Look here,' said Cyril, 'it isn't a dream; it's real.'

'Ho yes!' said the cook; 'they always says that in dreams.'

'It's REAL, I tell you,' Robert said, stamping his foot. 'I'm not
going to tell you how it's done, because that's our secret.' He
winked heavily at each of the others in turn. 'But you wouldn't go
away and make that pudding, so we HAD to bring you, and I hope you
like it.'