Poppy spent the afternoon crooning and weeping over Pat's head. It seemed to her that she died a little death every time she thought of parting with him. But—was it not true that the little face had lost some of its pink tints of late?—that the odd eyes were growing larger? After she had dried her desperate tears and could trust herself to speak equably and reasonably, she called Mrs. Print into consultation.
Mrs. Print had a sister-in-law who lived in a rose-clad cottage in Surrey, and adored babies. Poppy had often seen and talked to her, and let her take Pat out; for she came up to London constantly to try to beguile Mrs. Print to part with one of her little boys—even the vivacious Jimmy would have been made welcome.
Mrs. Print assured Poppy that no Dook's baby would be better looked after than a child in Sarah Print's care, and that she (Poppy) could go and stay down in the little rose-clad cottage whenever she was free, for Sarah had lots of room, a lovely garden, and corn-fields all round her.
"You can't see nothing but 'ills and corn-fields wheresumever you look! It would drive me off my nut to live there a week, but Sarah likes it. You tike baby down and go and 'ave a look to-morrow, ma'am."
"Nothing but hills and corn-fields!"
The words brought a mist over Poppy's eyes. That was what she wanted for her son. She kissed him and asked Mrs. Print to mind him for an hour while she went to Sloane Street.
In a bright room, among flowers, the invalid woman lay on a couch, with an embroidered coverlet of crimson satin drawn up to her chin. Her face was pale and petulant, with great brown eyes that roamed restlessly and were full of peevish misery. She was of the fickle, impetuous nature that indulges in groundless hates and likings, and the moment she saw Poppy standing there, she put out her hands feverishly, as if for something she had long wanted. Poppy, indeed, was sweet and dewy-looking, as always when she came from her little love-baby, and now the added beauty of courageous renouncement lighted her lilac eyes.
"Ah! I know you are the girl Marion was talking about," cried the invalid. "You will come, won't you? How lovely you are—I shall just love having you with me! Come and sit here where I can see you—but don't look at me; I can't bear to be looked at."
Poppy sat down by the couch and submitted to being stared at, even touched by the pale, restless hands. Mrs. Chesney did most of the talking. She only required a monosyllable here and there, and her manner varied oddly, from a cold hauteur which she vainly tried to make indifferent, to entreaty that was almost servile.