LITMIR.BIZ

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already with their lady-help, who sat on a camp-stool and kept order with a whistle that she wore tied round her neck, and a small cane with which she directed operations. The Samuel Josephs never played by themselves or managed their own game. If they did, it ended in the boys pouring water down the girls’ necks or the girls trying to put little black crabs into the boys’ pockets. So Mrs. S. J. and the poor lady-help drew up what she called a “brogramme” every morning to keep them “abused and out of bischief.” It was all competitions or races or round games. Everything began with a piercing blast of the lady-help’s whistle and ended with another. There were even prizes—large, rather dirty paper parcels which the lady-help with a sour little smile drew out of a bulging string kit. The Samuel Josephs fought fearfully for the prizes and cheated and pinched one another’s arms—they were all expert pinchers. The only time the Burnell children ever played with them Kezia had got a prize, and when she undid three bits of paper she found a very small rusty button-hook. She couldn’t understand why they made such a fuss. …

      But they never played with the Samuel Josephs now or even went to their parties. The Samuel Josephs were always giving children’s parties at the Bay and there was always the same food. A big washhand basin of very brown fruit-salad, buns cut into four and a washhand jug full of something the lady-help called “Limmonadear.” And you went away in the evening with half the frill torn off your frock or something spilled all down the front of your open-work pinafore, leaving the Samuel Josephs leaping like savages on their lawn. No! They were too awful.

      On the other side of the beach, close down to the water, two little boys, their knickers rolled up, twinkled like spiders. One was digging, the other pattered in and out of the water, filling a small bucket. They were the Trout boys, Pip and Rags. But Pip was so busy digging and Rags was so busy helping that they didn’t see their little cousins until they were quite close.

      “Look!” said Pip. “Look what I’ve discovered.” And he showed them an old wet, squashed-looking boot. The three little girls stared.

      “Whatever are you going to do with it?” asked Kezia.

      “Keep it, of course!” Pip was very scornful. “It’s a find—see?”

      Yes, Kezia saw that. All the same. …

      “There’s lots of things buried in the sand,” explained Pip. “They get chucked up from wrecks. Treasure. Why—you might find—”

      “But why does Rags have to keep on pouring water in?” asked Lottie.

      “Oh, that’s to moisten it,” said Pip, “to make the work a bit easier. Keep it up, Rags.”

      And good little Rags ran up and down, pouring in the water that turned brown like cocoa.

      “Here, shall I show you what I found yesterday?” said Pip mysteriously, and he stuck his spade into the sand. “Promise not to tell.”

      They promised.

      “Say, cross my heart straight dinkum.”

      The little girls said it.

      Pip took something out of his pocket, rubbed it a long time on the front of his jersey, then breathed on it and rubbed it again.

      “Now turn round!” he ordered.

      They turned round.

      “All look the same way! Keep still! Now!”

      And his hand opened; he held up to the light something that flashed, that winked, that was a most lovely green.

      “It’s a nemeral,” said Pip solemnly.

      “Is it really, Pip?” Even Isabel was impressed.

      The lovely green thing seemed to dance in Pip’s fingers. Aunt Beryl had a nemeral in a ring, but it was a very small one. This one was as big as a star and far more beautiful.

V

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      As the morning lengthened whole parties appeared over the sand-hills and came down on the beach to bathe. It was understood that at eleven o’clock the women and children of the summer colony had the sea to themselves. First the women undressed, pulled on their bathing dresses and covered their heads in hideous caps like sponge bags; then the children were unbuttoned. The beach was strewn with little heaps of clothes and shoes; the big summer hats, with stones on them to keep them from blowing away, looked like immense shells. It was strange that even the sea seemed to sound differently when all those leaping, laughing figures ran into the waves. Old Mrs. Fairfield, in a lilac cotton dress and a black hat tied under the chin, gathered her little brood and got them ready. The little Trout boys whipped their shirts over their heads, and away the five sped, while their grandma sat with one hand in her knitting-bag ready to draw out the ball of wool when she was satisfied they were safely in.

      The firm compact little girls were not half so brave as the tender, delicate-looking little boys. Pip and Rags, shivering, crouching down, slapping the water, never hesitated. But Isabel, who could swim twelve strokes, and Kezia, who could nearly swim eight, only followed on the strict understanding they were not to be splashed. As for Lottie, she didn’t follow at all. She liked to be left to go in her own way, please. And that way was to sit down at the edge of the water, her legs straight, her knees pressed together, and to make vague motions with her arms as if she expected to be wafted out to sea. But when a bigger wave than usual, an old whiskery one, came lolloping along in her direction, she scrambled to her feet with a face of horror and flew up the beach again.

      “Here, mother, keep those for me, will you?”

      Two rings and a thin gold chain were dropped into Mrs. Fairfield’s lap.

      “Yes, dear. But aren’t you going to bathe here?”

      “No-o,” Beryl drawled. She sounded vague. “I’m undressing farther along. I’m going to bathe with Mrs. Harry Kember.”

      “Very well.” But Mrs. Fairfield’s lips set. She disapproved of Mrs. Harry Kember. Beryl knew it.

      Poor old mother, she smiled, as she skimmed over the stones. Poor old mother! Old! Oh, what joy, what bliss it was to be young. …

      “You look very pleased,” said Mrs. Harry Kember. She sat hunched up on the stones, her arms round her knees, smoking.

      “It’s such a lovely day,” said Beryl, smiling down at her.

      “Oh my dear!” Mrs. Harry Kember’s voice sounded as though she knew better than that. But then her voice always sounded as though she knew something better about you than you did yourself. She was a long, strange-looking woman with narrow hands and feet. Her face, too, was long and narrow and exhausted-looking; even her fair curled fringe looked burnt out and withered. She was the only woman at the Bay who smoked, and she smoked incessantly, keeping the cigarette between her lips while she talked, and only taking it out when the ash was so long you could not understand why it did not fall. When she was not playing bridge—she played bridge every day of her life—she spent her time lying in the full glare of the sun. She could stand any amount of it; she never had enough. All the same, it did not seem to warm her. Parched, withered, cold, she lay stretched on the stones like a piece of tossed-up driftwood. The women at the Bay thought she was very, very fast. Her lack of vanity, her slang, the way she treated men as though she was one of them, and the fact that she didn’t care twopence about her house and called the servant Gladys “Glad-eyes,” was disgraceful. Standing on the veranda steps Mrs. Kember would call in her indifferent, tired voice, “I say, Glad-eyes, you might heave me a handkerchief if I’ve got one, will you?” And Glad-eyes, a red bow in her hair instead of a cap, and white shoes, came running with an impudent smile. It was an absolute scandal! True, she had no children, and her husband. … Here the voices were always raised; they became fervent. How can he have married her? How can he, how can he? It must have been money, of course, but even then!

      Mrs.

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