But just before he came to the precipice he was given a glimpse of the real world—­and of a world beyond that, far more splendid and romantic than any region of his dreams.

The children had no lessons during Christmas, or for three weeks after.  On the last morning before the holidays George brought a letter for Mr. Raymond, who read it, considered for a while, and laid it among his papers.

“It’s an invitation,” George announced in a whisper.  “I wonder if he’ll let you come.”

“Where?” whispered Taffy.

“Up to Plymouth—­to the Pantomime.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh—­clowns, and girls dressed up like boys, and policemen on slides, and that sort of thing.”

Taffy sat bewildered.  He vaguely remembered Plymouth as a mass of roofs seen from the train, as it drew up for a minute or two on a high bridge.  Someone in the railway carriage had talked of an engine called Brutus, which (it appeared) had lately run away and crashed into the cloak-room at the end of the platform.  He still thought of railway engines as big, blundering animals, with wills of their own, and of Plymouth as a town rendered insecure by their vagaries; but the idea that its roofs covered girls dressed up like boys and policemen on slides was new to him, and pleasant on the whole, though daunting.

“Will you give my thanks to Sir Harry,” said Mr. Raymond, after lessons, “and tell him that Taffy may go.”

So on New Year’s Day Taffy found himself in Plymouth.  It was an experience which he could never fit into his life except as a gaudy interlude; for when he awoke and looked back upon it, he was no longer the boy who had climbed up beside Sir Harry and behind Sir Harry’s restless pair of bays.  The whirl began with that drive to the station; began again in the train; began again as they stepped out on the pavement at Plymouth, just as a company of scarlet-coated soldiers came down the roadway with a din of brazen music.  The crowd, the shops, the vast hotel, completely dazed him, and he seriously accepted the waiter, in his black suit and big white shirt-front, as a contribution to the fun of the entertainment.

“We must dine early,” Sir Harry announced at lunch; “the Pantomime begins at seven.”

“Isn’t—­isn’t this the Pantomime?” Taffy stammered.

George giggled.  Sir Harry set down his glass of claret, stared at the boy, and broke into musical laughter.  Taffy perceived he had made some ridiculous mistake and blushed furiously.

“God bless the child—­the Pantomime’s at the theatre!”

“Oh!” Taffy recalled the canvas booth and wheezy cornet of his early days with a chill of disappointment.