“I know I’ve been away, and you must have thought I was never coming back, but I couldn’t help that. I had to go to school, and I couldn’t take you with me. And now I’m going to be home for weeks and weeks, and it will be awfully slow if you aren’t with me. Nobody seems really excited about my coming back, and Uncle Samuel’s away, and everything’s rotten—so you must stay with me and go out with me for walks and everything.” Hamlet was staring down at the floor through his hair. His master was scratching his head in exactly the way that he used to do, in the way that no one else had ever done. Three, four, five scratches in the middle, then slowly towards the right ear, then slowly towards the left, then both ears pulled close together, then a piece of hair twisted into a peak, then all smoothed down again and softly stroked into tranquillity. Delicious! His soul quivered with sensuous ecstasy. Then his master’s hands smelt as they had always done, hard and rough, with the skin suddenly soft between the fingers. Very good to lick! His tongue was half out. In another moment he would have rolled over on to his back, his legs stuck stiffly out, his eyes closed, waiting for his belly to be tickled. In another moment! But there was a knock on the door, and Mary appeared. Mary’s eyes were red behind her spectacles. She had the sad, resigned indignation of a Cassandra misunderstood. “Jeremy, aren’t you coming down to tea? We’re half finished.” He rose to his feet. He knew that he must say something. “I say, Mary,” he stammered, “it was most awfully decent of you to make that poetry up. I did like it.” “Did you really?” she asked, gulping. “Yes, I did.” “Would you like a copy of it?” “Most awfully.” “I did make a copy of it. But I thought nobody cared—or wanted to hear. . . .” Fearful lest she should begin to cry again, he said hurriedly: “Here’s Hamlet. He’s always been in the kitchen. He’s not going to be any longer.” Hamlet followed him downstairs, but still with reluctant dignity. The moment of his surrender had been covered, and he did not know that he would now surrender after all. He would see. Meanwhile he smelt food, and where food was he must be. Tea was in the schoolroom. Miss Jones, the governess, was away on her holiday, and Jeremy saw at once that the worst thing possible had occurred: his Aunt Amy, whom he did not love, was in charge of the tea-table. He had fantastic thoughts when he saw his aunt, thinking of her never as a human being, but as an animal, a bird, perhaps. A crow. A vulture. Something hooked and clawed. But to-day she was determined that she would be friendly. “Sit down, Jeremy dear. You’re very late, but on the first day we’ll say nothing about it.” His mother should have been here. Where was his mother? “Have you washed your hands? Mother has callers. . . . There is blackberry jam and also strawberry. Your welcome home, Jeremy.”