when they too grew up to have husbands: husbands such as Egbert, adorable
and null.

Joyce, the eldest, was still his favourite. She was now a quicksilver
little thing of six years old. Barbara, the youngest, was a toddler of
two years. They spent most of their time down at Crockham, because he
wanted to be there. And even Winifred loved the place really. But now, in
her frustrated and blinded state, it was full of menace for her children.
The adders, the poison-berries, the brook, the marsh, the water that
might not be pure--one thing and another. From mother and nurse it was a
guerilla gunfire of commands, and blithe, quicksilver disobedience from
the three blonde, never-still little girls. Behind the girls was the
father, against mother and nurse. And so it was.

'If you don't come quick, nurse, I shall run out there to where there are
snakes.'

'Joyce, you _must_ be patient. I'm just changing Annabel.'

There you are. There it was: always the same. Working away on the common
across the brook he heard it. And he worked on, just the same.

Suddenly he heard a shriek, and he flung the spade from him and started
for the bridge, looking up like a startled deer. Ah, there was
Winifred--Joyce had hurt herself. He went on up the garden.

'What is it?'

The child was still screaming--now it was--'Daddy! Daddy! Oh--oh, Daddy!'
And the mother was saying: