“I’ve got it,” Anthea whispered, just opening her hand to give the others a glimpse of it. “Do let’s get home. We can’t stand here like stuck-pigs looking at it in the street.” So home they went. The parlour in Fitzroy Street was a very flat background to magic happenings. Down in the country among the flowers and green fields anything had seemed—and indeed had been—possible. But it was hard to believe that anything really wonderful could happen so near the Tottenham Court Road. But the Psammead was there—and it in itself was wonderful. And it could talk—and it had shown them where a charm could be bought that would make the owner of it perfectly happy. So the four children hurried home, taking very long steps, with their chins stuck out, and their mouths shut very tight indeed. They went so fast that the Psammead was quite shaken about in its fish-bag, but it did not say anything—perhaps for fear of attracting public notice. They got home at last, very hot indeed, and set the Psammead on the green tablecloth. “Now then!” said Cyril. But the Psammead had to have a plate of sand fetched for it, for it was quite faint. When it had refreshed itself a little it said— “Now then! Let me see the charm,” and Anthea laid it on the green table-cover. The Psammead shot out his long eyes to look at it, then it turned them reproachfully on Anthea and said— “But there’s only half of it here!” This was indeed a blow. “It was all there was,” said Anthea, with timid firmness. She knew it was not her fault. “There should be another piece,” said the Psammead, “and a sort of pin to fasten the two together.” “Isn’t half any good?”—“Won’t it work without the other bit?”—“It cost seven-and-six.”—“Oh, bother, bother, bother!”—“Don’t be silly little idiots!” said everyone and the Psammead altogether. Then there was a wretched silence. Cyril broke it— “What shall we do?” “Go back to the shop and see if they haven’t got the other half,” said the Psammead. “I’ll go to sand till you come back. Cheer up! Even the bit you’ve got is _some_ good, but it’ll be no end of a bother if you can’t find the other.” So Cyril went to the shop. And the Psammead to sand. And the other three went to dinner, which was now ready. And old Nurse was very cross that Cyril was not ready too. The three were watching at the windows when Cyril returned, and even before he was near enough for them to see his face there was something about the slouch of his shoulders and set of his knickerbockers and the way he dragged his boots along that showed but too plainly that his errand had been in vain. “Well?” they all said, hoping against hope on the front-door step.