“And we paddle and bathe. Do you like bathing?” “Going into the sea?” “Yes.” “Oh, no! Mother says I mustn't, because it'll hurt my hair. Do you like my hair?” “Yes,” said Jeremy, blushing at so direct an invitation to compliment. “Mother says I've got to be very careful of my hair because it's my chief beauty.” “Yes,” said Jeremy. “I have a maid, Alice, and she brushes a whole hour every morning and a whole hour every evening.” “Don't you get very tired?” asked Jeremy. “I know I should.” “Mother says if you have such beautiful hair you must take trouble with it,” Charlotte gravely replied. Her voice was so like the voice of a parrot that Jeremy's grandmother had once possessed that it didn't seem as though a human being was speaking at all. They were near the beach now and could see the blue slipping in, turning into white bubbles, then slipping out again. “Do you like my frock?” said Charlotte. “Yes,” said Jeremy. “It was bought in London. All my clothes are bought in London.” “Mary's and Helen's aren't,” said Jeremy with some faint idea of protecting his sisters. “They're bought in Polchester.” “Mother says,” said Charlotte, “that if you're not pretty it doesn't matter where you buy your clothes.” They arrived on the beach and stared about them. It became at once a great question as to where Mrs. Le Page would sit. She could not sit on the sand which looked damp, nor equally, of course, on a rock that was spiky and hard. What to do with her? She stood in the middle of the beach, still holding up her skirts, gazing desperately about her, looking first at one spot and then at another. “Oh, dear, the heat!” she exclaimed. “Is there no shade anywhere? Perhaps in that farm-house over there...” It was probable enough that no member of the Cole family would have minded banishing Mrs. Le Page into the farmhouse, but it would have meant that the whole party must accompany her. That was impossible. They had come for a picnic and a picnic they would have. Mrs. Cole watched, with growing agitation, the whole situation. She saw from her husband's face that he was rapidly losing his temper, and she had learnt, after many experiences, that when he lost his temper he was capable of anything. That does not mean, of course, that he ever was angry to the extent of swearing or striking out with his fists--no, he simply grew sadder, and sadder, and sadder, and this melancholy had a way of reducing to despair all the people with whom he happened to be at the time. “What does everyone say to our having lunch now?” cried Mrs. Cole cheerfully. “It's after one, and I'm sure everyone's hungry.”