Page:The White Peacock, Lawrence, 1911.djvu/323

Rh father jumped from the sofa; George sat up with wide eyes; Lettie gave a little cry and a shudder; Trip rushed round and began to bark. There was a smell of cooked meat.

“There goes number one!” said the mother, with her queer little laugh. It made me laugh too.

“What’s a matter—what’s a matter?” asked the father excitedly.

“It’s a chicken been and walked into the fire—I put it on the hob to warm,” explained his wife.

“Goodness—I couldn’t think what was up!” he said, and dropped his head to trace gradually the border between sleeping and waking.

George sat and smiled at us faintly, he was too dazed to speak. His chest still leaned against the table, and his arms were spread out thereon, but he lifted his face, and looked at Lettie with his dazed, dark eyes, and smiled faintly at her. His hair was all ruffled, and his shirt collar unbuttoned. Then he got up slowly, pushing his chair back with a loud noise, and stretched himself, pressing his arms upwards with a long, heavy stretch.

“Oh—h—h!” he said, bending his arms and then letting them drop to his sides. “I never thought you’d come to-day.”

“I wanted to come and see you—I shan’t have many more chances,” said Lettie, turning from him and yet looking at him again.

“No, I suppose not,” he said, subsiding into quiet. Then there was silence for some time. The mother began to enquire after Leslie, and kept the conversation up till Emily came down, blushing and smiling and glad.