Cyril edged along the side of the bath and stood beside her. He put his hand on her arm.
“Dry up, do,” he said, rather tenderly for him. And, finding that though she did not at once take his advice she did not seem to resent it, he put his arm awkwardly across her shoulders and rubbed his head against her ear.
“There!” he said, in the tone of one administering a priceless cure for all possible sorrows. “Now, what’s up?”
“Promise you won’t laugh?”
“I don’t feel laughish myself,” said Cyril, dismally.
“Well, then,” said Anthea, leaning her ear against his head, “it’s Mother.”
“What’s the matter with Mother?” asked Cyril, with apparent want of sympathy. “She was all right in her letter this morning.”
“Yes; but I want her so.”
“You’re not the only one,” said Cyril briefly, and the brevity of his tone admitted a good deal.
“Oh, yes,” said Anthea, “I know. We all want her all the time. But I want her now most dreadfully, awfully much. I never wanted anything so much. That Imogen child—the way the ancient British Queen cuddled her up! And Imogen wasn’t me, and the Queen was Mother. And then her letter this morning! And about The Lamb liking the salt bathing! And she bathed him in this very bath the night before she went away—oh, oh, oh!”