It ended by her admitting I was perfectly right, and—by Billie filling his pail with pretty pebbles.
I still had that feeling of depression when we returned to our rooms for an early luncheon (there's nothing I so detest); after which we discovered that Miriam thought I had told the man to call for the luggage at 12.45, while I thought that Miriam had told the man to call for the luggage at 12.45.
And then we had to change twice, and the trains were crowded, and Miriam insisted on looking at The Daily Dressmaker, and Billie insisted on not looking at Mother Goose.
At Liverpool Street station I kept my temper in an iron control while pointing out to quite a number of taxi-men the ease with which Billie's pram and Billie's cot and Billie's bath could be balanced upon their vehicles. But the climax came when, Miriam having softened the heart of one of them, we were held up in a block at Oxford Circus, and Billie, à propos of nothing, drooped his under lip and broke into a roar—
"Billie wants the sea-side! Billie wants Mr. Moy!"
I suppose Miriam did her best, but he was not to be quieted, and old ladies in omnibuses peered reproaches at me, the cruel, cruel parent. I frowned upon Miriam.
"Will nothing stop the child?"
"There's a smut on your nose, dear," was all she replied. I rubbed my nose; I also ground my teeth....
I was still wrestling on the pavement with the pram, the cot and the rest of it, when Billie's cries from within the house suddenly ceased. Had the poor little chap burst something? I hurried indoors and found him—all sunshine after showers—seated on the floor with rocking-horse and Noah's ark and butcher's shop grouped around him.
"He's quite good now he's got his toys," he assured me, no doubt echoing something Miriam had just said.