I went into the day nursery to see what the boys were doing, for my conversation with Pierson had been in the bedroom. Poor little boys, they did not look very merry. Racey, who was cleverer at amusing himself than Tom, was creeping about the floor drawing an imaginary cart, in reality the lid of Pierson's bonnet-box, to which with some difficulty he had ingeniously fastened his own two boots as horses, for the toys we had brought with us were not yet unpacked. Racey was quite cracked about horses—he turned everything into horses.
"Look, Audrey, look," he said. "See my calliage and pair. But Tom won't play."
"How could I play with that rubbish?" said Tom. "Indeed, I don't care to play at all. I don't want Pierson to unpack our toys."
"Why not?" I asked, rather puzzled.
Tom was sitting on the window-sill, which was wide—for the house was rather an old one I think—swinging his feet about and staring gloomily at the dull rows of houses opposite.
"Why don't you want Pierson to unpack our toys?" I repeated.
"Oh because—because— I can't quite say what I mean. If our toys were all unpacked and put out nicely like they used to be at—at home," said poor Tom with a tremble in his voice, "it would seem as if we were to stay here always—as if it was to be a sort of a home to us, and you know it would only be a pertence one. I'd rather just have it like it is, and then we can keep thinking that it's only for a little—just till they come back again."
I did not answer at once. What he said made me think so much of that day when poor mother couldn't bear to pack up any pretty things for her house in China, because she said she didn't want to make a home of it. It was queer that Tom should say just the same—it must be true that he was like mother.
