Emily obeyed. Philip got a broom and swept out the kitchen; Mr. Rowles brought in a handful of mustard-and-cress as a relish for bread-and-butter. And soon they were all seated at the table.
"Not a boat in sight," said Mr. Rowles; "nor yet a punt."
"It is early yet," replied his wife; "wait until the first train from London comes in."
"Like enough there will be folks come by it," rejoined Rowles; "they must be precious glad to get out of London this hot day."
"Why must they be glad, father?" asked Philip.
"Because London is awful hot in hot weather; it seems as if it had not got enough air for all the folks to breathe that live in it. Millions of people, Philip. Write down a million on your slate, boy."
Philip brought his slate and pencil and wrote 1,000,000.
"Write it over again, and twice more. Now that seems a good many, eh? Well, there are more people in London than all those millions on your slate. What do you think of that?"
The boy had no idea at all of what a million of people would look like, nor a million of lemon drops, nor a million of anything. He did not even try to gain an idea on the subject.
"Mother," said Emily, "does Aunt Mary live in London? And Albert and Juliet and Florry and Neddy—and—and all the others."