“You must walk on this side, and be respectful. Of course it is only Pretend, you know,” she added, with a quick consciousness of Frere's conceit. “Now then, the Queen goes down to the Seashore surrounded by her Nymphs! There is no occasion to laugh, Mr. Frere. Of course, Nymphs are very different from you, but then we can't help that.”
Marching in this pathetically ridiculous fashion across the sand, they halted at the coracle. “So that is the boat!” says the Queen, fairly surprised out of her assumption of dignity. “You are a Wonderful Man, Mr. Dawes!”
Rufus Dawes smiled sadly. “It is very simple.”
“Do you call this simple?” says Frere, who in the general joy had shaken off a portion of his sulkiness. “By George, I don't! This is ship-building with a vengeance, this is. There's no scheming about this—it's all sheer hard work.”
“Yes!” echoed Sylvia, “sheer hard work—sheer hard work by good Mr. Dawes!” And she began to sing a childish chant of triumph, drawing lines and letters in the sand the while, with the sceptre of the Queen.
“Good Mr. Dawes! Good Mr. Dawes! This is the work of Good Mr. Dawes!”
Maurice could not resist a sneer.
“See-saw, Margery Daw, Sold her bed, and lay upon straw!” said he.
“Good Mr. Dawes!” repeated Sylvia. “Good Mr. Dawes! Why shouldn't I say it? You are disagreeable, sir. I won't play with you any more,” and she went off along the sand.
“Poor little child,” said Rufus Dawes. “You speak too harshly to her.”