He lost his collar-stud, he tore one of his stockings as he pulled it on, he pinched his finger in the door, and he dropped his tooth-mug, with water in it too, and the mug was broken and the water went into his boots.
There are mornings, you know, when things happen like that.

This was one of them.
Then he went down to breakfast, which tasted not quite so nice as usual.
He was late, of course.

The bacon fat was growing grey with waiting for him, as Helen said, in the cheerful voice that had always said all the things he liked best to hear.

But Philip didn't smile.

It did not seem the sort of morning for smiling, and the grey rain beat against the window.
After breakfast Helen said, 'Tea in the garden is indefinitely postponed, and it's too wet for lessons.' That was one of her charming ideas--that wet days should not be made worse by lessons.
'What shall we do ?' she said; 'shall we talk about the island?
Shall I make another map of it?
And put in all the gardens and fountains and swings ?' The island was a favourite play.