‘Dot,’ he called in ‘a voice.’
Only little bursts of melody answered him. She was singing a rippling song of Schubert’s; it was in keeping with the warm, soft air [p 30] ]outside, the twittering of birds, the faint motion of the gum leaves.
‘Dot!’ he shouted.
She put a curly little head between the window curtains.
‘Well, Larrakin?’ she said.
‘Come and mind the baby,’ he said shortly, ‘I want to smoke.’
‘But baby doesn’t mind smoke at all—do you, small sweet?’ she said, going over to the hammock. ‘Oh Larrie, look how uncomfortable he is, you’re a nice one to look after him; and where’s his comforter? he’ll have no thumb left presently.’
‘I threw it away,’ Larrie answered, ‘all that indiarubber can’t be good for him, I don’t intend him to have another.’
‘Stupid!’ said Dot. She kissed the baby, tickled it, tossed it, then laid it down again.
‘What did you call me for,’ she said. ‘I was just enjoying myself.’ Her eyes still had the look of being away in the spheres. ‘He’s all right there and it’s your turn to mind him, [p 31] ]Larrie. I walked him about for an hour in the night.’