No response.
“Mam!” she whispered.
She was desperate. She stood on tiptoe, and pulled with little hands at her mother’s breast.
“Mam!” she whispered shrilly.
Her mother, with an effort of self-denial, put off her investment of tragedy, and, laying her arm round the child’s shoulders, drew her close. Gwen was somewhat reassured, but not satisfied. With an earnest face upturned to the impassive countenance of her mother, she began to whisper, sibilant, coaxing, pleading.
“Mam, there was a lady, she had a dog—”
Vera turned sharply to stop this whispering, which was too much for her nerves, but the mother forestalled her. Taking the child in her arms, she averted her face, put her cheek against the baby cheek, and let the tears run freely. Gwen was too much distressed to cry. The tears gathered very slowly in her eyes, and fell without her having moved a muscle in her face. Vera remained in the scullery, weeping tears of rage, and pity, and shame into the towel. The only sound in the room was the occasional sharp breathing of Beatrice. Siegmund sat without the trace of a movement, almost without breathing. His head was ducked low; he dared never lift it, he dared give no sign of his presence.
Presently Beatrice put down the child, and went to join Vera in the scullery. There came the low sound of women’s talking—an angry, ominous sound. Gwen followed her mother. Her little voice could be heard cautiously asking:
“Mam, is dad cross—is he? What did he do?”
“Don’t bother!” snapped Vera. “You are a little nuisance! Here, take this into the dining-room, and don’t drop it.”