Now pears fall within his mother's province and I am sure that he has had as many as he is entitled to. And so we are at once agreed that what he wants is a wholly irrelevant², uncalled-for, delightful³ extra pear.

 

Unfortunately, it also appears that the request has already been laid before Mamma and met with a positive refusal.

 

The situation is serious, but not hopeless. For I am a man who knows how mean is the supply of pears to us poor wretched children of men and how wonderful an extra pear tastes.

 

And I am glad that my little boy did not give up all hope of the pear at the first obstacle. I can see by the longing⁴ in his green eyes how big the pear is and I reflect with lawful⁵ paternal⁶ pride that he will win his girl and his position in life when their time comes.

 

We now discuss the matter carefully.

 

First comes the prospect⁷ of stomach-ache:

 

"Never mind about that," says he.

 

I quite agree with his view.

 

Then perhaps Mother will be angry.

 

No, Mother is never angry. She is sorry; and that is not nice. But then we must see and make it up to her in another way.

 

So we slink in and steal the pear.

 

I put it to him whether, perhaps—when we have eaten the pear—we ought to tell Mother. But that does not appeal to him:

 

"Then I shan't get one this evening," he says.

 

And when I suggest that, possibly, Mother might be impressed with such audacious candour, he shakes his head decisively:

 

"You don't know Mother," he says.

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