rung children who so often
lose their heads and do things for which they suffer agonies in the
watches of the night for long afterwards, was shouting and tearing at
the flowers and throwing them over Georgie and drawing attention to
himself by every extravagance his child's brain could light upon.

"Look at me, Georgie; look at me!" he cried, pulling a bunch of the
flowers through his buttonhole and jumping up on a boulder that thrust
itself through the turfy cliffside; "I'm the King of the Castle, I'm the
King of the Castle!..." Georgie threw a few bits of grass at him and
then turned to go on with an argument she had been having with Ishmael
when the sight of the vernal squills had distracted them. Nicky would
not leave them alone; determined not to be ignored, he went on pelting
her and kept up his monotonous chant: "I'm the King of the Castle, I'm
the King of the Castle...."

"Don't do that," said Ishmael sharply. "Do you hear me, Nicky? Leave
off!" But Nicky went on, and, finding no notice was being taken of him,
he flung a frond of bracken, then, losing his temper, a clod of earth
and turf he dug up from the ground. It hit Georgie on the cheek and
scattered against her; a tiny fragment of stone in it cut her skin
slightly, so that a thin thread of blood sprang out. Nicky felt suddenly
very frightened. He kept up his song, but his note had altered, and as
Ishmael got to his feet his voice died away.

"Don't be angry with him," said Georgie quickly. "He didn't do it on
purpose."

She felt the embarrassment one is apt to feel at a display of authority
over some third person. She looked at Ishmael as though it were she he
was angry with, and felt a ridiculous kinship with Nicky. The little boy
stood away from them both, defiant, scowling from below his fair brows,
his small chest heaving, his nervous eyes sidelong. He was frightened,
therefore all the more likely to make matters worse by rudeness. Ishmael
was, unreasonably, more annoyed than he had ever been with Nicky, who
had often been far more disobedient and in more of a temper. Ishmael
picked him up and held him firmly for all his wriggling. Nicky yelled
and screamed; his small face was scarlet with fear and passion; he
drummed with his heels against his father's legs and hit out with his
pathetically useless fists. Ishmael swung him under his arm.

"Please--" began Georgie.

"I am going to take him home," said Ishmael. "You had better not come.
You'll fi