“Oh, my goodness, the pump!” Chorus, “The pump?” “The bicycle pump! Has that young brute taken the bicycle pump?” “Yes, he took it. I saw it.” Commotion. “Catch him across the field! Catch him across the field! Where are my boots? Where the devil are my boots? Well, never mind the infernal button. How am I going to get to the bank with a flat tyre? Can’t some one catch him across the field instead of all standing there staring?” Away they go! Rosalie, seeking a good place for the glorious spectacle, is knocked over in the stampede for the door. Nobody minds Rosalie. Rosalie doesn’t mind--anything to see this entrancing sight! Away they go, flying over the meadow, shouting, scrambling, falling. Out after them plunges Harold, shirt-sleeved, one boot half on, hobbling, leaping, bawling. Glorious to watch him! He outruns them all; he outbellows them all. Of course he does. He is a man. He is one of those splendid, wonderful, mysterious creatures to whom, subject only to Rosalie’s father, the entire world belongs. Look at him, bounding, bawling! Wonderful, wonderful Harold! But Robert is wonderful too. If it had been Anna or Flora or Hilda gone off with the pump, she would have been easily caught. Not Robert. Wonderful and mysterious Robert, wonderfully and mysteriously pedalling at incredible speed, is not caught. The hunt dejectedly trails back. The business of pushing Harold out of the house is devotedly resumed. And again--enthralling spectacle--just as the reign of Robert was terminated by the accession of Harold, so the dominion of Harold is overthrown by the accession of father. Harold is crowded about with ministrants. Nobody can leave him for a minute. Rosalie’s father appears. Everybody leaves Harold simultaneously, abruptly, and as if by magic. Rosalie’s father appears. Everybody disappears. Wonderful father! Everybody melts away: but Harold does not melt away. Courageous Harold! Everybody melts; only Harold is left, and Rosalie watching; and immediately, as always, the magnificent males clash with sound and fury. Rosalie’s father scowls upon Harold and delivers his morning greeting. No “Good morning, dear,” as her mother would have said. “Aren’t you gone yet?” like a bark from a kennel. “Just going.” Wonderful father! A moment before there had been not the remotest sign of Harold ever going. Now Harold is very anxious to go. He is very anxious to go but, like Robert, he will not abandon the field without defiance of the authority next above his own. While he collects his things he whistles. Rosalie shudders (but deliciously as one in old Rome watching the gladiators). “Do you see the clock, sir?” “Yes.” “Well, quicken yourself, sir. Quicken yourself.” “The clock’s fast.” “It is not fast, sir. And let me add that the clock with which you could keep time of a morning, or of any hour in the day, would have to be an uncommonly slow clock.”