She was sitting at work in the south parlour one day, when I dashed into the room calling out: "Derrick's head is stuck between the banisters in the gallery; come quick, mother, come quick!" She ran up the little winding staircase, and there, sure enough, in the musician's gallery, was poor Derrick, his manuscript and pen on the floor and his head in durance vile.
"You silly boy!" said my mother, a little frightened when she found that to get the head back was no easy matter, "What made you put it through ?" "You look like King Charles at Carisbrooke," I cried, forgetting how much Derrick would resent the speech.
And being released at that moment he took me by the shoulders and gave me an angry shake or two, as he said vehemently, "I'm not like King Charles! King Charles was a liar." I saw my mother smile a little as she separated us.
"Come, boys, don't quarrel," she said.

"And Derrick will tell me the truth, for indeed I am curious to know why he thrust his head in such a place." "I wanted to make sure," said Derrick, "whether Paul Wharncliffe could see Lady Lettice, when she took the falcon on her wrist below in the passage.

I mustn't say he saw her if it's impossible, you know.

Authors have to be quite true in little things, and I mean to be an author." "But," said my mother, laughing at the great earnestness of the hazel eyes, "could not your hero look over the top of the rail ?" "Well, yes," said Derrick.

"He would have done that, but you see it's so dreadfully high and I couldn't get up.