He liked playing on the sands at Prittlebay in summer when they were covered with trippers’ children.  He hated Richard’s passion for bringing the names of foreign places into the games.  When Richard was sitting on his engine and roaring, “I’m the Trans-Andean express, and I don’t half go at a pace!” Roger would stand against the wall opposite and cry over and over again in that whistling voice:  “Make it the London, Tilbury and Prittlebay train!  Make it the London, Tilbury and Prittlebay train!” When he felt happy he would repeatedly jump up in the air, bringing both his feet down on the ground at once, but a little distance apart, so that his thin legs looked horrible, and he would make loud, silly noises.  At these times Richard would sit with his back to him and would take no notice.  Always he was insolent to the other child.  He would not share his toys with him, though sometimes he would pick out one of the best toys and give it to his brother as a master might give a present to a servant.  He was of the substance of his mother, and he knew all that she knew, and he knew that this child was an intruder.

They clenched themselves against him.  They were kind to him, but they would silently scheme to be alone together.  If they were all three in the garden, she sitting with her needlework, Richard playing with his engine and Roger making daisy-chains, there would come a time when she would arise and go into the house.  She would not look at Richard before she went, for in externals she forced herself to be loyal to Roger.  When she got into the house she would linger about the rooms at factitious operations, pouring out of the flower-glasses water that was not stale, or putting on the kettle far too soon, until she heard Richard coming to look for her, lightfootedly but violently, banging doors behind him, knocking into furniture.  He would halt at the door and stand for a moment, twiddling the handle round and round, as if he had not really been so very keen to come to her, and she would go on indifferently with her occupation.  But presently she would feel that she must steal a glance at the face that she knew would be looking so adorable now, peering obliquely round the edge of the door, the lips bright with vitality as with wet paint and the eyes roguish as if he felt she were teasing life by enjoying it so, and the dear square head, browny-gold like the top of a bun, and the little bronze body standing so fresh and straight in the linen suit.  So her glance would slide and slide, and their eyes would meet and he would run to her.  If he had anything on his conscience he would choose this moment for confession.  “Mother, I told a lie yesterday.  But it wasn’t about anything really important, so we won’t talk about it, will we?”