It was plain that Cyril was not pleased.

The unlikeliness of anything really interesting happening in that
parlour lay like a weight of lead on everyone's spirits. Cyril
had his dinner, and just as he was swallowing the last mouthful
of apple-pudding there was a scratch at the door. Anthea opened
it and in walked the Psammead.

'Well,' it said, when it had heard the news, 'things might be
worse. Only you won't be surprised if you have a few adventures
before you get the other half. You want to get it, of course.'

'Rather,' was the general reply. 'And we don't mind adventures.'

'No,' said the Psammead, 'I seem to remember that about you.
Well, sit down and listen with all your ears. Eight, are there?
Right--I am glad you know arithmetic. Now pay attention, because
I don't intend to tell you everything twice over.'

As the children settled themselves on the floor--it was far more
comfortable than the chairs, as well as more polite to the
Psammead, who was stroking its whiskers on the hearth-rug--a
sudden cold pain caught at Anthea's heart. Father--Mother--the
darling Lamb--all far away. Then a warm, comfortable feeling
flowed through her. The Psammead was here, and at least half a
charm, and there were to be adventures. (If you don't know what
a cold pain is, I am glad for your sakes, and I hope you never
may.)