The children’s bewilderment lasted. London was not what they had expected, but it was even more astounding. From time to time, however, they would realise how this or that did chime in with something they had been told, though not at all with the idea that the telling had conjured up. On these occasions they felt something as Saint Matthew must have felt when, after recounting some trivial incident, he adds: ‘That it might be fulfilled which was spoken by the Prophet So-and-So.’ ‘Why look!’ exclaimed Edward. ‘There’s only toys in this store!’ ‘Why, don’t you remember ...’ began Emily. Yes, their mother had told them, on a visit to their father’s general store in St. Anne’s, that in London there were stores which not only sold toys but which sold toys only. At that time they hardly knew what toys were. A cousin in England had once sent them out some expensive wax dolls, but even before the box was opened the wax had melted: consequently the only dolls they had were empty bottles, which they clothed with bits of rag. These had another advantage over the wax kind: you could feed them, poking it into the neck. If you put in some water too, in a day or so the food began to digest, visibly. The bottles with square shoulders they called He-beasties, and the bottles with round shoulders they called She-beasties. Their other toys were mostly freakish sticks, and different kinds of seeds and berries. No wonder it seemed strange to them to imagine these things in a shop. But the idea engaged them, nevertheless. Down by the bathing-hole there were several enormous cotton-trees, which lift themselves on their roots right out of the earth, as on stilts, making a big cage. One of these they dubbed their toy-shop: decorated it up with lace-bark, and strings of bright-coloured seeds, and their other toys: then they would go inside and take turns to sell them to each other. So now this was the picture the phrase ‘toy-shop’ evoked in them. No wonder the London kind was a surprise to them, seemed a very far-fetched fulfilment of the prophecy. The houses in Hammersmith are tall, roomy, comfortable houses, though not big or aristocratic, with gardens running right down to the river. It was a shock to them to find how dirty the river was. The litter-strewn mud when the tide was out somehow offended them much less than the sewery water when it was up. At low tide they would often climb down the wall and scrounge about in the mud for things of value to them happily enough. They stank like polecats when they came up again. Their father was sensible about dirt. He ordered a tub of water to be kept permanently outside the basement door, in which they must wash before entering the house: but none of the other children in the terrace were allowed to play in the mud at all. Emily did not play in the mud either: it was only the little ones.