But his really unusual quality was his mixture of stolid English matter-of-fact with an absolutely unbridled imagination.  He would pursue, day by day, week after week, games, invented games of his own, that owed nothing, either for their inception or their execution, to any one else.  They had their origin for the most part in stray sentences that he had overheard from his elders, but they also arose from his own private and personal experiences—­experiences which were as real to him as going to the dentist or going to the pantomime were to his brothers and sisters.  There was, for instance, a gentleman of whom he always spoke of as Mr. Jack.  This friend no one had ever seen, but Bim quoted him frequently.  He did not, apparently, see him very often now, but at one time when he had been quite a baby Mr. Jack had been always there.  Bim explained, to any one who cared to listen, that Mr. Jack belonged to all the Other Time which he was now in very serious danger of forgetting, and when, at that point, he was asked with condescending indulgence, “I suppose you mean fairies, dear!” he always shook his head scornfully and said he meant nothing of the kind, Mr. Jack was as real as mother, and, indeed, a great deal “realer,” because Mrs. Rochester was, in the course of her energetic career, able to devote only “whirlwind” visits to her “dear, darling” children.

When the afternoon was spent in the gardens in the middle of the Square, Bim would detach himself from his family and would be found absorbed in some business of his own which he generally described as “waiting for Mr. Jack.”

“Not the sort of child,” said Miss Agg, who had strong views about children being educated according to practical and common-sense ideas, “not the sort of child that one would expect nonsense from.”  It may be quite safely asserted that never, in her very earliest years, had Miss Agg been guilty of any nonsense of the sort.

But it was not Miss Agg’s contempt for his experiences that worried Bim.  He always regarded that lady with an amused indifference.  “She bothers so,” he said once to Lucy.  “Do you think she’s happy with us, Lucy?”

“P’r’aps.  I’m sure it doesn’t matter.”

“I suppose she’d go away if she wasn’t,” he concluded, and thought no more about her.

No, the real grief in his heart was that Lucy, the adored, the wonderful Lucy, treated his assertions with contempt.

“But, Bim, don’t be such a silly baby.  You know you can’t have seen him.  Nurse was there and a lot of us, and we didn’t.”

“I did though.”

“But, Bim——­”

“Can’t help it.  He used to come lots and lots.”

“You are a silly!  You’re getting too old now——­”

“I’m not a silly!”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m not!”

“Oh, well, of course, if you’re going to be a naughty baby.”