Part 14 (1/2)

”Oh yes, we'll wait,” he said. They followed the girl into a narrow pa.s.sage, close and airless, and smelling of Irish stew. Sounds of warfare came from behind a closed door: a child began to cry loudly, and a boy's voice was heard, angry and tired.

The maid ushered the visitors into a dingy little drawing-room. Norah stopped her as she was departing.

”Could I see the children?”

The girl hesitated.

”They're a bit untidy,” she said sullenly. ”I ain't had no time to clean 'em up. There ain't no one to take them for a walk to-day.”

”Oh, never mind how untidy they are,” said Norah hastily. ”Do send them in.”

”Oh, all right,” said the girl. ”You'll tell the missus it was you arsked for 'em, won't yer?”

”Yes, of course.”

She went out, and the Lintons looked at each other, and then at the hopeless little room. The furniture was black horsehair, very s.h.i.+ny and hard and slippery; there was a gimcrack bamboo overmantel, with much speckled gla.s.s, and the pictures were of the kind peculiar to London lodging-houses, apt to promote indigestion in the beholder.

There was one little window, looking out upon a blank courtyard and a dirty little side-street, where children played and fought incessantly, and stray curs nosed the rubbish in the gutters in the hope of finding food. There was nothing green to be seen, nothing clean, nothing pleasant.

”Oh, poor kiddies!” said Norah, under her breath.

The door opened and they came in; not shyly--the London child is seldom shy--but frankly curious, and in the case of the elder two, with suspicion. Three white-faced mites, as children well may be who have spent a London summer in a Bloomsbury square, where the very pavements sweat tar, and the breathless, sticky heat is as cruel by night as by day. A boy of six, straight and well-grown, with dark hair and eyes, who held by the hand a small toddling person with damp rings of golden hair: behind them a slender little girl, a little too shadowy for a mother's heart to be easy; with big brown eyes peeping elfishly from a cloud of brown curls.

The boy spoke sullenly.

”Eva told us to come in,” he said.

”We wanted you to take care of us,” said Norah. ”You see, your mother isn't here.”

”But we can't have tea,” said the boy. ”Eva says she isn't cleaned up yet, and besides, there's no milk, and very likely Mother'll forget the cakes, she said.”

”But we don't want tea,” said Norah. ”We had a big lunch, not so long ago. And besides, we've got something nicer than tea. It's in his pocket.” She nodded at her father, who suddenly smiled in the way that made every child love him, and, fis.h.i.+ng in his pocket drew out a square white box--at sight of which the baby said delightedly, ”Choc!”

and a kind of incredulous wonder, rather pitiful to see, came into the eyes of Geoffrey and his sister.

”There's a very difficult red ribbon on this,” said Mr. Linton, fumbling with it. ”I can't undo it.” He smiled at little Alison.

”You show me how.”

She was across the room in a flash, the baby at her heels, while Geoffrey made a slow step or two, and then stopped again.

”But you don't undone it 'tall,” she said. ”It sticks on top. You breaks this paper”--pointing to the seal--”and then it undones himself.”

”You're quite right,” said Mr. Linton, as the lid came off. ”So it does. How did you know?”

”We did have lots of boxes when we lived with the wegiment,” said the small girl; ”but now the wegiment's in Fwance, and Daddy doesn't have enough pennies for chocs.” Her busy fingers tossed aside tissue paper and silver wrapping, until the brown rows of sweets were revealed.

Then she put her hands by her sides.

”Is we to have some?”

”Oh, you poor little soul!” said David Linton hurriedly, and caught her up on his knee. He held the box in front of her.

”Now, which sort do you think is best for weeshy boys like that?” he asked, indicating the baby, who was making silent dives in the direction of the box. ”And which do you like?--and Geoffrey?”