"A year and two months. Yes, he is very big."
"He looks like you, doesn't he?"
"Does he?" she said faintly.
"Just your colour," Sir Hugh assured her. "As grave as a little king, isn't he. How firmly he looks at me."
"He is grave, but he never cries; he is very cheerful, too, and well and strong."
"He looks it. He does you credit. Well, my little man, shall we be friends?" Sir Hugh held out his hand. Augustine continued to gaze at him, unmoving. "He won't shake hands," said Sir Hugh.
Amabel took the child's hand and placed it in her husband's; her own fingers shook. But Augustine drew back sharply, doubling his arm against his breast, though not wavering in his gaze at the stranger.
Sir Hugh laughed at the decisive rejection. "Friendship's on one side, till later," he said.
When her husband had gone Amabel went out into the sycamore wood. It was a pale, cool evening. The sun had set and the sky beyond the sycamores was golden. Above, in a sky of liquid green, the evening star shone softly.