Then perhaps Mother will be angry.
No, Mother is never angry. She is sorry; and that is not nice. But then we must see and make it up to her in another way.
So we slink in and steal the pear.
I put it to him whether, perhaps—when we have eaten the pear—we ought to tell Mother. But that does not appeal to him:
"Then I shan't get one this evening," he says.
And when I suggest that, possibly, Mother might be impressed with such audacious candour, he shakes his head decisively:
"You don't know Mother," he says.
So I, of course, have nothing to say.
Shortly after this, the mother of my little boy and I are standing at the window laughing at the story.
We catch sight of him below, in the courtyard.