It was the first Sunday of the season, and the select end of Folkesbourne
revealed in each carefully curled geranium leaf, in each carefully-combed
blade of grass, the thought and labour expended by the B.O.F. (Borough of
Folkesbourne).
Upon the greensward stood orderly rows of well-washed chairs, each with
B.O.F. neatly stencilled upon its back. On this day, however, and at this
hour (12.30 P.M.) scarce a B.O.F. was visible; each was hidden by a
well-dressed visitor. And between the orderly rows of well-dressed visitors
paraded orderly pairs of superbly-dressed visitors.
I was standing at the corner by the steps leading to the lower parade and
thence to the beach and the rocks where the common people (myself on
week-days, for instance) go to paddle with their children. I was wearing my
new pale-grey suit which cost--but you will know more or less what it cost;
I need not labour an unpleasant subject--and I was actually talking at the
time to a member of the B.O.F.
"This is Peace at last," he was saying; "the place really begins to look--"
It was at this moment that Edward appeared. His route was the very centre
of the lawn. He was wearing a battered Panama hat, a much-darned brownish
jersey, and his nether man--or rather boy, for Edward's years are but
four--was encased in paddling drawers made of the same material as a
sponge-bag. Black sand-shoes completed his outfit, and a broken shrimping-
net trailed behind him. At the moment when Edward first caught my horrified
eye a particularly well-groomed young gentleman of about his own age caught
Edward's eye in turn. Edward paused to survey this silken wonder with
interest. Then, as if prompted thereto by the sight, he snatched off his
hat and, casting it upon the ground, kicked it vigorously across the grass.
The removal of the hat was the last straw, for Edward's hair is
provocatively red. My friend of the B.O.F. advanced towards him with the
intention of exerting authority and restoring discipline. Edward turned at
the sound of a stern voice. Possibly he might have put out his tongue--you
never know with Edward. But, what was worse, far worse, he saw me. With a
glad cry of "Daddy" he rushed to me and, regardless of the fact that his
front was covered with green slime, the result of going _ventre à pierre_
over the rocks, he flung his arms round my legs.
I would gladly have sunk into the ground. All eyes were upon us, and
remained, as I felt, upon me, even when a breathless nursery-maid had
retrieved Edward and borne him seawards once more.
One especially I had noticed, a very superbly dressed female visitor who
had paused to witness the whole scene and was now resuming her promenade. I
dreaded the comment which I felt I should overhear as she passed me--"What
a horrible child!" it would be at the very least. But women are strangely
unaccountable, even in so highly civilised an atmosphere as this. I
distinctly heard her say, "What a darling!"
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[Illustration: _Mother._ "IT IS VERY NAUGHTY TO TELL UNTRUTHS, KITTY. THOSE
WHO DO SO NEVER GET TO HEAVEN."
_Kitty._ "DIDN'T YOU EVER TELL AN UNTRUTH, MUMMY?"
_Mother._ "NO, DEAR--NEVER."
_Kitty._ "WELL, YOU'LL BE FEARFULLY LONELY, WON'T YOU, WITH ONLY GEORGE
WASHINGTON?"]
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