The grown-up Lamb frowned. "My dear Anthea," he said, "how often am I to tell you that my name is Hilary or St. Maur or Devereux?--any of my baptismal names are free to my little brothers and sisters, but _not_ 'Lamb'--a relic of foolishness and far-off childhood." This was awful. He was their elder brother now, was he? Well of course he was, if he was grown-up--since they weren't. Thus, in whispers, Anthea and Robert. But the almost daily adventures resulting from the Psammead's wishes were making the children wise beyond their years. "Dear Hilary," said Anthea, and the others choked at the name, "you know father didn't wish you to go to London. He wouldn't like us to be left alone without you to take care of us. Oh, deceitful thing that I am!" she added to herself. "Look here," said Cyril, "if you're our elder brother, why not behave as sich and take us over to Maidstone and give us a jolly good blow-out, and we'll go on the river afterwards?" "I'm infinitely obliged to you," said the Lamb courteously, "but I should prefer solitude. Go home to your lunch--I mean your dinner. Perhaps I may look in about tea-time--or I may not be home till after you are in your beds." Their beds! Speaking glances flashed between the wretched four. Much bed there would be for them if they went home without the Lamb. "We promised mother not to lose sight of you if we took you out," Jane said before the others could stop her. "Look here, Jane," said the grown-up Lamb, putting his hands in his pockets and looking down at her, "little girls should be seen and not heard. You kids must learn not to make yourselves a nuisance. Run along home now--and perhaps, if you're good, I'll give you each a penny to-morrow." "Look here," said Cyril, in the best "man to man" tone at his command, "where are you going, old man? You might let Bobs and me come with you--even if you don't want the girls." This was really rather noble of Cyril, for he never did care much about being seen in public with the Lamb, who of course after sunset would be a baby again. The "man to man" tone succeeded. "I shall run over to Maidstone on my bike," said the new Lamb airily, fingering the little black mustache. "I can lunch at The Crown--and perhaps I'll have a pull on the river; but I can't take you all on the machine--now, can I? Run along home, like good children." The position was desperate. Robert exchanged a despairing look with Cyril. Anthea detached a pin from her waistband, a pin whose withdrawal left a gaping chasm between skirt and bodice, and handed it furtively to Robert--with a grimace of the darkest and deepest meaning. Robert slipped away to the road. There, sure enough, stood a bicycle--a beautiful new one. Of course Robert understood at once that if the Lamb was grown up he _must_ have a bicycle. [Illustration: There, sure enough, stood a bicycle]