children followed and the Phoenix settled on Robert, 'like a
butterfly on a rose,' as Anthea said afterwards, and wriggled into
the breast of his Norfolk jacket, 'like an eel into mud,' as Cyril
later said.

'Why ever didn't you burn him? You could have, couldn't you?'
asked Robert, when the hurried flight through the narrow courts had
ended in the safe wideness of Farringdon Street.

'I could have, of course,' said the bird, 'but I didn't think it
would be dignified to allow myself to get warm about a little thing
like that. The Fates, after all, have not been illiberal to me.
I have a good many friends among the London sparrows, and I have a
beak and claws.'

These happenings had somewhat shaken the adventurous temper of the
children, and the Phoenix had to exert its golden self to hearten
them up.

Presently the children came to a great house in Lombard Street, and
there, on each side of the door, was the image of the Phoenix
carved in stone, and set forth on shining brass were the words--

PHOENIX FIRE OFFICE


'One moment,' said the bird. 'Fire? For altars, I suppose?'

'_I_ don't know,' said Robert; he was beginning to feel shy, and that
always made him rather cross.