That was his first definite realisation of approaching triumph. Throughout the whole of his seventh year he had fought with Helen, who was most unjustly a year older than he and persistently proud of that injustice, as to his right to use the wicker arm-chair whensoever it pleased him. So destructive of the general peace of the house had these incessant battles been, so unavailing the suggestions of elderly relations that gentlemen always yielded to ladies, that a compromise had been arrived at. When Jeremy was eight he should have equal rights with Helen. Well and good. Jeremy had yielded to that. It was the only decent chair in the nursery. Into the place where the wicker, yielding to rude and impulsive pressure, had fallen away, one's body might be most happily fitted. It was of exactly the right height; it made the handsomest creaking noises when one rocked in it--and, in any case, Helen was only a girl. But the sense of his triumph had not yet fully descended upon him. As he sat up in bed, yawning, with a tickle in the middle of his back and his throat very dry; he was disappointingly aware that he was still the same Jeremy of yesterday. He did not know what it was exactly that he had expected, but he did not feel at present that confident proud glory for which he had been prepared. Perhaps it was too early. He turned round, curled his head into his arm, and with a half-muttered, half-dreamt statement about the wicker chair, he was once again asleep. II He awoke to the customary sound of the bath water running into the bath. His room was flooded with sunshine, and old Jampot, the nurse (her name was Mrs. Preston and her shape was Jampot), was saying as usual: “Now, Master Jeremy, eight o'clock; no lying in bed--out--you get--bath--ready.” He stared at her, blinking. “You should say 'Many Happy Returns of the Day, Master Jeremy,'” he remarked. Then suddenly, with a leap, he was out of bed, had crossed the floor, pushed back the nursery door, and was sitting in the wicker arm-chair, his naked feet kicking a triumphant dance. “Helen! Helen!” he called. “I'm in the chair.” No sound. “I'm eight,” he shouted, “and I'm in the chair.” Mrs. Preston, breathless and exclaiming, hurried across to him. “Oh, you naughty boy... death of cold... in your nightshirt.” “I'm eight,” he said, looking at her scornfully, “and I can sit here as long as I please.” Helen, her pigtails flapping on either shoulder, her nose red, as it always was early in the morning, appeared at the opposite end of the nursery. “Nurse, he mustn't, must he? Tell him not to. I don't care how old you are. It's my chair. Mother said--” “No, she didn't. Mother said--” “Yes, she did. Mother said--” “Mother said that when--” “Oh, you story. You know that Mother said--” Then suddenly a new, stiffening, trusting dignity filled him, as though he had with a turn of the head discovered himself in golden armour.