“Well,” said Selim, “we’ve done it this time.”
They certainly had, for on the door of the bathing machine was painted: “You must not bathe any more except through me.”
So there was no more running into the sea just when and how they liked. They had to use the bathing machine, and it smelt of stale salt water and other people’s wet towels.
After this the children did not seem to care so much about the seaside, and they played more on the downs, where the rabbits were very kind and hospitable, and in the woods, where all sorts of beautiful flowers grew wild—and there was nobody to say “Don’t” when you picked them. The children thought of what Uncle Thomas would have said if he had been there, and they were very, very happy.
But one day Thomasina had pulled a lot of white convolvulus and some pink geraniums and calceolarias—the kind you are never allowed to pick at home—and she had made a wreath of them and put it on her head.
Then Selim said, “You are silly! You look like a Bank Holiday.”
And his sister said, “I can’t help it.
