‘Do you mean he’s HERE?’ said Anthea.
‘Of course he’s here,’ said mother, a little impatiently. ‘Where did you think he was?’
Anthea went round the foot of the big mahogany bed. There was a pause.
‘He’s not here NOW,’ she said.
That he had been there was plain, from the toilet-cover on the floor, the scattered pots and bottles, the wandering brushes and combs, all involved in the tangle of ribbons and laces which an open drawer had yielded to the baby’s inquisitive fingers.
‘He must have crept out, then,’ said mother; ‘do keep him with you, there’s a darling. If I don’t get some sleep I shall be a wreck when father comes home.’
Anthea closed the door softly. Then she tore downstairs and burst into the nursery, crying—
‘He must have wished he was with mother. He’s been there all the time. “Aggety dag—“’
The unusual word was frozen on her lip, as people say in books.
For there, on the floor, lay the carpet, and on the carpet, surrounded by his brothers and by Jane, sat the Lamb. He had covered his face and clothes with vaseline and violet powder, but he was easily recognizable in spite of this disguise.