"There are always the Twins," she reminded him.
"Not the same thing at all," he said. "May I have some more sugar, Mary Poppins?"
He fully expected her to say "No!" But, instead, she smiled serenely.
"If you want it, Michael," she replied, with the ladylike nod she reserved for strangers.
Could he believe his ears, he wondered? He hurriedly emptied the sugar bowl in case they had made a mistake.
"The post has come!" cried Mrs. Banks, bustling in with a package. "Nothing for anyone but Michael!"
He tore apart the paper and string. Aunt Flossie had sent him a cake of chocolate!
"Nut milk — my favourite!" he exclaimed, and was just about to take a bite when there came a knock at the door.
Robertson Ay shuffled slowly in.
"Message from Mrs. Brill," he yawned. "She's mixed a sponge cake, she says, and would like him to scrape the bowl!" He pointed a weary finger at Michael.
Scrape the cake-bowl! What a treat! And as rare as unexpected!
"I'm coming right away!" he shouted, stuffing the chocolate into his pocket. And, feeling rather bold and daring, he decided to slide down the banisters.
"The very chap I wanted to see!" cried Mr. Banks, as Michael landed. He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and handed his son a shilling.
"What's that for?" demanded Michael. He had never had a shilling before.
"To spend," said Mr. Banks solemnly, as he took his bowler hat and bag and hurried down the path.
Michael felt very proud and important. He puffed out his chest in a lordly way and clattered down to the kitchen.
"Good — is it, dearie?" said Mrs. Brill, as he tasted the sticky substance.
"Delicious," he said, smacking his lips.
But before he had time for another spoonful a well-known voice floated in from the Lane.
"All hands on deck! Up with the anchor! For I'm bound for the Rio Grande!"
It was Admiral Boom, setting out for a walk.
Upon his head was a black hat, painted with skull-and-crossbones — the one he had taken from a pirate chief in a desperate fight off Falmouth.
Away through the garden Michael dashed to get a look at it. For his dearest hope was that some day he, too, would have such a hat.
"Heave her over!" the Admiral roared, leaning against the front gate and lazily mopping his brow.
The autumn day was warm and misty. The sun was drawing into the sky the rain that had fallen last night.
"Blast my gizzard!" cried Admiral Boom, fanning himself with his hat. "Tropical weather that's what it is — it oughtn't to be allowed. The Admiral's hat is too hot for the Admiral. You take it, messmate, till I come back. For away I'm bound to go — oho! — 'cross the wide Missouri!"
And spreading his handkerchief over his head, he thrust the pirate's hat at Michael and stamped away, singing.
Michael clasped the skull-and-crossbones. His heart hammered with excitement as he put the hat on his head.
"I'll just go down the Lane," he said, hoping that everybody in it would see him wearing the treasure. It banged against his brow as he walked and wobbled whenever he looked up. But nevertheless, behind each curtain — he was sure — there lurked an admiring eye.
It was not until he was nearly home that he noticed Miss Lark's dogs. They had thrust their heads through the garden fence and were looking at him in astonishment. Andrew's tail gave a well-bred wag, but Willoughby merely stared.
"Luncheon!" trilled Miss Lark's voice.
And as Willoughby rose to answer the summons he winked at Andrew and sniggered.
"Can he be laughing at me?" thought Michael. But he put the idea aside as ridiculous and sauntered up to the nursery.
"Do I have to wash my hands, Mary Poppins? They're quite clean," he assured her.
"Well, the others, of course, have washed theirs — but you do as you think best!"
At last she realised, he thought, that Michael Banks was no ordinary boy. He could wash or not, as he thought best, and she hadn't even told him to take off his hat! He decided to go straight in to luncheon.
"Now, away to the Park," said Mary Poppins, as soon as the meal was over. "If that is convenient for you, Michael?" She waited for his approval.
"Oh, perfickly convenient!" He gave a lordly wave of his hand. "I think I shall go to the swings."
"Not to the Lake?" protested Jane. She wanted to look at Neleus.
"Certainly not!" said Mary Poppins. "We shall do what Michael wishes!"
And she stood aside respectfully as he strutted before her through the gate.
The soft bright mist still rose from the grass, blurring the shapes of seats and fountains. Bushes and trees seemed to float in the air. Nothing was like its real self until you were close upon it.
Mary Poppins sat down on a bench, settled the perambulator beside her and began to read a book. The children dashed away to the playground.
Up and down on the swings went Michael, with the pirate's hat bumping against his eyes. Then he took a ride on the spinning-jenny and after that, the loop. He couldn't turn somersaults, like Jane, for fear of dropping the hat. "What next?" he thought, feeling rather bored. Everything possible, he felt, had happened to him this morning. Now there was nothing left to do.
He wandered back through the weaving mist and sat beside Mary Poppins. She gave him a small, preoccupied smile, as though she had never seen him before, and went on reading her book. It was called Everything a Lady Should Know.
Michael sighed, to attract her attention.
But she did not seem to hear.
He kicked a hole in the rainy grass.
Mary Poppins read on.
Then his eye fell on her open handbag which was lying on the seat. Inside it was a handkerchief, and beneath the handkerchief a mirror and beside the mirror her silver whistle.
He gazed at it with envious eyes. Then he glanced at Mary Poppins. There she was, still deep in her book. Should he ask her again for a loan of the whistle? She seemed to be in the best of humours — not a cross word the whole day long.
But was the humour to be relied on? Suppose he asked and she said no!
He decided not to risk asking, but just to take the whistle. It was only borrowing, after all. He could put it back in a minute.
Quick as a fish his hand darted, and the whistle was in his trouser-pocket.
Round behind the bench he hurried, feeling the silver shape against him. He was just about to take it out when something small and bright ran past him.
"I believe that's the cat I saw last night!" said Michael to himself.
And, indeed, it was one and the same. The same black-and-yellow coat shone in the sunny mist, more like dapples of light and shadow than ordinary fur. And about its neck was the same gold collar.
The cat glanced up invitingly, smiling the same mysterious smile, and padded lightly on.
Michael darted after it, in and out of the patches of mist that seemed to grow thicker as he ran.
Something fell with a chink at his feet.
"My shilling!" he cried, as he bent to retrieve it. He searched among the steaming grasses, turning over the wet blades, feeling under the clover. Not here! Not there! Where could it have gone?
"Come on!" said a soft, inviting voice. He looked round quickly. To his surprise there was nobody near — except the smiling cat.
"Hurry!" cried the voice again.
It was the cat who had spoken.
Michael sprang up. It was no use hunting, the shilling had gone. He hurried after the voice.
The cat smiled and rubbed against his legs as he caught it up. The steaming vapour rose up from the earth, wrapping them both around. And before them stood a wall of mist almost as thick as a cloud.