“Who are you? What is it?” he whispered.
In the doorway he made out a blur of whiteness. Slipping from his bed, he stole towards it. Stooping, he touched it.
“You!”
Her arms flew up and tugged at him passionately. Her tears were on his cheeks. For the first time she kissed him.
“You’re cold, darling little girl.”
And then for the first time he kissed her mouth.
“Oh, I don’t want you to think that I’m bad. I’m not bad, Teddy. And I like you to be King Arthur or Sir Launcelot, or—or anybody.”
He fetched his counterpane and wrapt it round her, coaxing, her just inside the doorway so that they might not be heard. Together, crouched against the wall, with their arms about each other’s necks, they huddled in the darkness.
“I didn’t mind—not really.” Since she had kissed him, he was fully persuaded of the untruth himself. “I shouldn’t really mind whatever you called me. Little Desire, I thought you never cried. You do believe me, don’t you?”
“Oh, I do want my mother so,” she whispered, drawing deep sobs between her words. “If you was to help me to escape to your mother, I’m sure we could find her. And then, you could come and stay with us, and I could come and stay with you. And we should be always and always together.”