to share in the joy of the baby’s bath, was laying the table. The boy was hanging on the door-knob, wrestling with it to get out. His father looked round.
“Come away from the door, Jack,” he said, ineffectually. Jack tugged harder at the knob as if he did not hear. Mr. Massy blinked at him.
“He must come away from the door, Mary,” he said. There will be a draught if it is opened.”
“Jack, come away from the door, dear,” said the mother, dexterously turning the shiny wet baby on to her towelled knee, then glancing round: “Go and tell Auntie Louisa about the train.”
Louisa, also afraid to open the door, was watching the scene on the hearth. Mr. Massy stood holding the baby’s flannel, as if assisting at some ceremonial. H everybody had not been subduedly angry, it would have been ridiculous.
“I want to see out of the window,” Jack said. His father turned hastily.
“Do you mind lifting him on to a chair, Louisa,” said Mary hastily. The father was too delicate.
When the baby was flannelled, Mr. Massy went upstairs and returned with four pillows, which he set in the fender to warm. Then he stood watching the mother feed her child, obsessed by the idea of his infant.
Louisa went on with her preparations for the meal. She could not have told why she was so sullenly angry. Mrs. Lindley, as usual, lay silently watching.
Mary carried her child upstairs, followed by her
H
