“Mamma, the red-haired woman in the sweetie shop has got a little baby, and its hair’s red, too.... Some day I shall have a little baby. I shall dress him in a long gown-----” “Robe.” “Robe, with bands of lace all down it, as long as _that_; and a white christening cloak sewn with white roses. Won’t he look sweet?” “Very sweet.” “He shall have lots of hair. I shan’t love him if he hasn’t.” “Oh, yes, you will.” “No. He must have thick, flossy hair like Mimi, so that I can stroke him. Which would you rather have, a little girl or a little boy?” “Well--what do you think----?” “I think--perhaps I’d rather have a little girl.” She would be like Mamma, and her little girl would be like herself. She couldn’t think of it any other way. The school-treat was held in Mr. Hancock’s field. All afternoon she had been with the children, playing Oranges and lemons, A ring, a ring of roses, and Here we come gathering nuts in May, _nuts_ in May, _nuts_ in May: over and over again. And she had helped her mother to hand cake and buns at the infants’ table. The guest-children’s tea was served last of all, up on the lawn under the immense, brown brick, many windowed house. There wasn’t room for everybody at the table, so the girls sat down first and the boys waited for their turn. Some of them were pushing and snatching. She knew what she would have. She would begin with a bun, and go on through two sorts of jam to Madeira cake, and end with raspberries and cream. Or perhaps it would be safer to begin with raspberries and cream. She kept her face very still, so as not to look greedy, and tried not to stare at the Madeira cake lest people should see she was thinking of it. Mrs. Hancock had given her somebody else’s crumby plate. She thought: I’m not greedy. I’m really and truly hungry. She could draw herself in at the waist with a flat, exhausted feeling, like the two ends of a concertina coming together. She was doing this when she saw her mother standing on the other side of the table, looking at her and making signs. “If you’ve finished, Hatty, you’d better get up and let that little boy have something.” They were all turning round and looking at her. And there was the crumby plate before her. They were thinking: “That greedy little girl has gone on and on eating.” She got up suddenly, not speaking, and left the table, the Madeira cake and the raspberries and cream. She could feel her skin all hot and wet with shame. And now she was sitting up in the drawing-room at home. Her mother had brought her a piece of seed-cake and a cup of milk with the cream on it. Mamma’s soft eyes kissed her as they watched her eating her cake with short crumbly bites, like a little cat. Mamma’s eyes made her feel so good, so good. “Why didn’t you tell me you hadn’t finished?” “Finished? I hadn’t even begun.” “Oh-h, darling, why didn’t you _tell_ me?” “Because I--I don’t know.”