‘But how shall we decide?’ he said heavily. He put the little tray back on the table and mechanically replaced the pens and paper knife, the darning needle and broken bit of coral he had emptied from it a few minutes ago.
‘He shall decide himself,’ she said. She [p 127] ]got up and went towards the door. ‘Write two more pieces of paper, and he shall draw.’
Larrie wrote L and D again with a heavy J nib, and again folded them up; then he followed his wife.
She was standing by the cot in an inner room looking down at the little sleep-flushed face. One little curled up hand was flung out on the counterpane, the other, with a thumb still wet, was drooped just below his chin. Damp little rings of hair lay on his forehead, his lips were apart, his long eyelashes motionless. Larrie came in on tip-toe.
‘You can’t wake him,’ he said in a low voice.
She shook her head, there was almost a fierce look in her eyes.
‘What will you do then?’ he asked. And ‘Wait,’ she returned.
He brought a wicker chair to the bedside for her, a stiff-backed one for himself.
They sat and watched in utter silence till the sun kissed the grey dawn white. Then the child stirred, flung off the blanket, sighed—and [p 128] ]slept again. Dot had gone pale as death, and even Larrie’s heart had beaten faster. But they composed themselves again, and watched without speaking. And blue was born in the sky, and the white tossed itself into cloud shapes that a wind drove over the sky to the west. Away at the back a gate banged, there was a sound of the contact of a tin and milk jug on the verandah. Then the gate fell to again.
Baby uncurled his hands, sighed and changed his cuddled-up side position for one flat on his back. Then he opened his eyes.