He vanished into the fog. At the mouth of the passage the cab was drawn up by the kerb, watching for him like a squat, red-eyed dragon, and gulping him the moment he appeared.
Half way home the pale little nurse broke suddenly into hysterical panting and weeping.
“Why don’t you give it me back? Why do you always keep it in your own arms?”
“I’m afraid of you, Ellen,” he said quietly. “You look somehow as if you weren’t to be trusted.”
They were passing a lighted shop at the moment. With a quick, unsuspected action she snatched the veil from the baby’s face.
“Ah!” she screamed—“it’s dead! You’ve had it killed!”
For a single instant the naked soul of him looked out—obscene—murderous. But he drove it back.
“You little wild fool,” he said deeply. “Wasn’t I right? Your nerves are anyhow. You aren’t to be trusted, with your fancies.”
She hardly seemed to hear him. All of a sudden she was struggling with the door handle.
“Let me out! I’m fainting! I can bear no more. I will be good—I want to go home—I——”