“Where’s Dada, Mummy?” she asked.
“Dada?” said Mrs. Satterthwaite, as though she did not understand.
“Yes,” said the child. “Dada—Dada who came back last night!”
Her mother shook her head, smilingly.
“You dreamed it, dear,” she said. “Dada was killed in the war.”
THE LOVERS
He opened the door into darkness and fumbled for the switch. The spacious, beautifully furnished living-room of the flat—long, dark bookcase filled with mellowed leather bindings; large, soft bearskins compensating for the insufficiency of the delicate Persian carpet on the parquet floor; a few precious prints spaced with an exquisite reticence upon the walls; an Oriental bibelot here and there emphasizing the quiet charm of English eighteenth-century furniture with its touch of the cunningly grotesque; two great leather-covered chairs by the fireside—was suffused with soft light.