"Oo, it is William Brown," persisted the little girl shrilly.
"If you say that again, dear," said the parent, "I shall have to take you home. It isn't kind. It may hurt the little boy's feelings. He's come a long, long way from a place where every prospect pleases and only man is vile, and you ought to be kind to him. How would you like to go to a strange far-away country and then have people say you were William Brown?"
This seemed unanswerable. The small child subsided.
Mr. Theophilus Mugg looked anxiously towards the gate.
"He doesn't seem to be coming," he said. "Shall we—er—adjourn to the drawing-room for tea and—er—hear Mr Habbakuk Jones's—er—address afterwards?"
There was an animated murmur of acquiescence.
"The—er—child of the sun," went on Mr. Mugg, "can stay out and we will—er—send his tea to him."
William's expression brightened.
"Swishy," he said.
"Thank you," translated the Vicar's wife to the rest of the audience.