Justin found the nursery door ajar and, as he pushed it open, the thin spear of light upon the floor widened and sharpened so that he could not see beyond it. He spoke into the darkness—
“Laura?”
“Yes.”
“I say—isn’t he asleep yet?”
“Of course. Fast. Don’t talk so loudly.” Her undertones were tense with triumph.
“Why don’t you come down then? We’ve been waiting——”
“Oh, I’m sorry. But he wouldn’t let me. He wouldn’t let go.” There was the daintiest little chuckle of pride in her voice and Justin felt his sense of injury melting. His eyes, accustomed to the half darkness, had found her at last, a splash of black draperies on the whiteness of the coverlet. Timothy, nominally a-bed, had forsaken his pillow for her shoulder and there lay snug, all pink curves and inadequate nightgown—one small fist tugging at her hair. A woolly beast was on her lap, and a tipped plate that had held strawberries, for the green calyxes were sliding off its rim. Her watch was on the floor, and he thought, by the ticking of it, that the lid was open. Her bracelets were on Timothy’s arm. He chuckled.
“You’ve been having a high old time!”
“I?” she countered blankly. “Don’t creak so, Justin. What are you looking for?”
“The slipper. Didn’t you smack him?”