But the sense of his triumph had not yet fully descended upon him. As he sat up in bed, yawning, with a tickle in the middle of his back and his throat very dry; he was disappointingly aware that he was still the same Jeremy of yesterday. He did not know what it was exactly that he had expected, but he did not feel at present that confident proud glory for which he had been prepared. Perhaps it was too early.
He turned round, curled his head into his arm, and with a half-muttered, half-dreamt statement about the wicker chair, he was once again asleep.
He awoke to the customary sound of the bath water running into the bath. His room was flooded with sunshine, and old Jampot, the nurse (her name was Mrs. Preston and her shape was Jampot), was saying as usual: “Now, Master Jeremy, eight o'clock; no lying in bed--out--you get--bath--ready.”
“You should say 'Many Happy Returns of the Day, Master Jeremy,'” he remarked. Then suddenly, with a leap, he was out of bed, had crossed the floor, pushed back the nursery door, and was sitting in the wicker arm-chair, his naked feet kicking a triumphant dance.
“Helen! Helen!” he called. “I'm in the chair.”
“I'm eight,” he shouted, “and I'm in the chair.”
Mrs. Preston, breathless and exclaiming, hurried across to him.
“Oh, you naughty boy... death of cold... in your nightshirt.”
“I'm eight,” he said, looking at her scornfully, “and I can sit here as long as I please.”
Helen, her pigtails flapping on either shoulder, her nose red, as it always was early in the morning, appeared at the opposite end of the nursery.
“Nurse, he mustn't, must he? Tell him not to. I don't care how old you are. It's my chair. Mother said--”
“Oh, you story. You know that Mother said--” Then suddenly a new, stiffening, trusting dignity filled him, as though he had with a turn of the head discovered himself in golden armour.
He was above this vulgar wrangling now. That was for girls. He was superior to them all. He got down from the chair and stood, his head up, on the old Turkey rug (red with yellow cockatoos) in front of the roaring fire.
“You may have your old chair,” he said to Helen. “I'm eight now, and I don't want it any more... although if I do want it I shall have it,” he added.