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.
II 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." He stared at her, blinking.
"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." No sound.
"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.