"There, you little fake." He deposited the baby on the rug before the fire, threw a piece of wood which caught instantly in gay little tongues of flame, and laughed at Rogie's clumsy efforts to reach them through the screen. But Anne did not see them. She was looking at Roger's back, at the rumpled hair and slightly creased shirt, with faint distaste.
Roger removed his son to safer distance, stretched and crossed to the window on the other side of the room.
"Beastly day. I wonder how that Kenneally meeting will be."
Roger yawned and, leaning against the window sash, looked into the gray stillness for an inspiration. Rogie, finding the pretty flames inaccessible and himself deserted, puckered his face for a cry, which Anne diverted just in time by cuddling him to her and kissing his bare toes.
Roger turned listlessly from the window, took a cigarette from the brass box on the mantel shelf, and began to walk up and down.
"Are you going? It's at four, isn't it?" she asked.
"I don't know—I haven't decided yet. Kenneally isn't much of a speaker."
He might not go. The afternoon would shut heavy upon them. She could not face it. She carried Rogie into the bedroom and closed the door. She dressed first and then dressed Rogie. If Roger did decide to go, she did not wish to prevent him by leaving the baby on his hands. A few moments later, carrying Rogie, delighted at the prospect of going out, but objecting strongly to his bonnet, which he tried to remove by vicious tugs, Anne came into the living-room. Roger was in his chair now, an open book on his lap. He looked up surprised at Anne, dressed to go out.
"I'll take him, so you needn't stay in if you want to go to the meeting."
"Going up to the house?" He was sure she was because Anne never went anywhere else on a Sunday, but he always mentioned her coming and going with kindly formality.