Part 14 (2/2)

”Michael likes these.” She fished one out carefully, and Michael fell upon it, sitting on the carpet that he might devour it at his ease.

”And Geoff and me--oh, we likes any 'tall.”

”Then you shall have any at all.” He held out his free hand. ”Come on, Geoff.” And the boy, who had hesitated, digging one foot into the carpet, suddenly capitulated and came.

”Are you an officer?” he asked presently.

”No, I'm too old,” said David Linton. ”But I have a big son who is one--and another boy too.”

”What's their regiment?”

”The same as your father's.”

”Truly?” A sparkle came into the boy's eyes. ”I'm going to be in it some day.”

”Of course you will--and Michael too, I suppose. And then you'll fight the Germans--that is, if there are any left.”

”Daddy says there won't be. But I keep hoping there'll be just a few for me and Michael.'

”Alison wants some too,” said that lady. ”Wants to kill vem wiv my wevolver.”

”A nice young fire-eater, you are,” said Mr. Linton, laughing.

”Girls can't kill Germans, silly,” said Geoffrey scornfully. ”They have to stop at home and make bandages.” To which his sister replied calmly, ”Shan't: I'm going to kill forty 'leven,” with an air of finality which seemed to end the discussion. Norah checked any further warlike reflections by finding a new layer of sweets as attractive as those on top, and the three heads cl.u.s.tered over the box in a pleasant anxiety of selection.

The carriages on the Tube railway had been very stuffy that afternoon.

Mrs. Hunt emerged thankfully from the crowded lift which shot up the pa.s.sengers from underground. She came with slow step into the dusty street. The flat was not far away: that was one comfort. But she sighed impatiently as she entered the building, to be confronted with the ”Not Working” legend on the lift.

”Little wretch!” she said, alluding to the absent lift-boy. ”I'm sure he's only playing pitch-and-toss round the corner.” She toiled up the three long flights of stairs--her dainty soul revolting at their unswept dinginess. Stella Hunt had been brought up in a big house on a wind-swept c.u.mberland fell, and there was no day in crowded Bloomsbury when she did not long for the clean open s.p.a.ces of her girlhood.

She let herself into the flat with her latch-key. Voices came to her from the sitting-room, with a gurgle of laughter from little Michael.

She frowned.

”Eva should not have let the children in there,” she thought anxiously. ”They may do some damage.” She opened the door hurriedly.

No one noticed her for a moment, David Linton, with Alison on one knee and Geoffrey on the other, was deep in a story of kangaroo-hunting.

On the floor sat Norah, with Michael tucked into her lap, his face blissful as she told on his fat fingers the tale of the little pigs who went to market. The box of chocolates was on the table, its scarlet ribbon making a bright spot of colour in the drab room. The mother looked for a minute in silence, something of the weariness dying out of her eyes.

Then Geoffrey looked up and saw her--a slight figure, holding a paper bag.

”Hallo!” he said. ”I'm glad you didn't forget the cakes, 'cause we've got people to tea!”

Mr. Linton placed his burden on the hearthrug, and got up.

”How are you, Mrs. Hunt? I hope you don't mind our taking possession like this. We wanted to get acquainted.”

”I could wish they were cleaner,” said Mrs. Hunt, laughing, as she shook hands. ”I've seldom seen three grubbier people. Geoff, dear, couldn't Eva have washed your face?”

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