So Cyril took the shilling, and they all started off. They went
round by the Tottenham Court Road to buy a piece of waterproof
sheeting to put over the Psammead in case it should be raining in
the Past when they got there. For it is almost certain death to
a Psammead to get wet.

The sun was shining very brightly, and even London looked pretty.
Women were selling roses from big baskets-full, and Anthea bought
four roses, one each, for herself and the others. They were red
roses and smelt of summer--the kind of roses you always want so
desperately at about Christmas-time when you can only get
mistletoe, which is pale right through to its very scent, and
holly which pricks your nose if you try to smell it. So now
everyone had a rose in its buttonhole, and soon everyone was
sitting on the grass in Regent's Park under trees whose leaves
would have been clean, clear green in the country, but here were
dusty and yellowish, and brown at the edges.

'We've got to go on with it,' said Anthea, 'and as the eldest has
to go first, you'll have to be last, Jane. You quite understand
about holding on to the charm as you go through, don't you,
Pussy?'

'I wish I hadn't got to be last,' said Jane.

'You shall carry the Psammead if you like,' said Anthea. 'That
is,' she added, remembering the beast's queer temper, 'if it'll
let you.'

The Psammead, however, was unexpectedly amiable.