"This is Cecil. His mummy's left him, here with his Auntie Hilda," said Hilda.
"Another clever dodge of hers!" thought Edwin. He liked the baby being there.
He approached the bed, and, staring nervously about, saw that his bag had already mysteriously reached the bedroom.
"Well, my poor boy! What a journey!" Hilda murmured compassionately. She could not help showing that she was his mother in wisdom and sense.
"Oh no!" he amiably dismissed this view.
He was standing over her by the bedside. She looked straight up at him timid and expectant. He bent and kissed her. Under his kiss she shifted slightly in the bed, and her arms clung round his neck, and by her arms she lifted herself a little towards him.
She shut her eyes. She would not loose him. She seemed again to be drawing the life out of him. At last she let him go, and gave a great sigh. All the past which did not agree with that kiss and that sigh of content was annihilated, and an immense reassurance filled Edwin's mind.
"So you've got a headache?"
She gave a succession of little nods, smiling happily.
"I'm so glad you've come, dearest," she said, after a pause. She was just like a young girl, like a child, in her relieved satisfaction. "What about George?"