How
different from those other days which we all know too well, when
your shoe-lace breaks, your comb is mislaid, your brush spins on
its back on the floor and lands under the bed where you can't get at
it you drop the soap, your buttons come off, an eyelash gets into
your eye, you have used your last clean handkerchief, your collar is
frayed at the edge and cuts your neck, and at the very last moment
your suspender breaks, and there is no string. On such a day as this
you are naturally late for breakfast, and everyone thinks you did it
on purpose. And the day goes on and on, getting worse and worse
you mislay your exercise-book, you drop your arithmetic in the
mud, your pencil breaks, and when you open your knife to sharpen
the pencil you split your nail. On such a day you jam your thumb
in doors, and muddle the messages you are sent on by grown-ups.
You upset your tea, and your bread-and-butter won't hold together
for a moment. And when at last you get to bed usually in disgrace
it is no comfort at all to you to know that not a single bit of it is
your own fault.
This day was not one of those days, as you will have noticed. Even
the tea in the garden there was a bricked bit by a rockery that made
a steady floor for the tea-table was most delightful, though the
thoughts of four out of the five were busy with the coming play,
and the fifth had thoughts of her own that had had nothing to do
with tea or acting.
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