“Nasty low things,” said the Mermaid; and the children never knew whether she meant the worm and the eel, or the girl and the boy.
“Now then. All together,” said the Spangled Child. And the barrow bumped down to the very edge of the rocks. And at the very edge its wheel caught in a chink and the barrow went sideways. Nobody could help it, but the Mermaid was tumbled out of her chariot on to the seaweed.
The seaweed was full and cushiony and soft, and she was not hurt at all—but she was very angry.
“You have been to school,” she said, “as my noble preserver reminds you. You might have learned how not to upset chariots.”
“It’s we who are your preservers,” Francis couldn’t help saying.
“Of course you are,” she said coolly, “plain preservers. Not noble ones. But I forgive you. You can’t help being common and clumsy. I suppose it’s your nature—just as it’s his to be....”
“Good-bye,” said Francis, firmly.
“Not at all,” said the lady. “You must come with me in case there are any places where I can’t exercise the elegant and vermiform accomplishment you spoke about. Now, one on each side, and one behind, and don’t walk on my tail. You can’t think how annoying it is to have your tail walked on.”
