Bess flushed a little more deeply, for his words and interest were very sweet to her. Then, looking up cheerfully, she said that it was only a matter of a day or two.
“Father is quite taking to baby too,” she said. “He nursed it for over an hour last night.”
“Did he?” cried Geoffrey, laughing. “I wish I had been here. I say, Bessie, does tobacco-smoke make it sneeze?”
“No: not much,” said Bessie wonderingly.
“Then look here,” cried Geoffrey, “I’m not going to let the old man beat me. I don’t see why I shouldn’t be able to nurse as well as he. Give us hold. I’m going out to loaf on the cliff, and look at the sea, and smoke a pipe and think, and I’ll take the baby.”
“Mr Trethick!” cried Bess.
“I mean it,” he said, laughing. “Here, come on, young one. Which way up do you hold it, Bessie?”
“Oh, Mr Trethick,” cried Bessie. “Don’t—please don’t take it.”
“Shall!” said Geoffrey; and to Bessie’s amusement and annoyance, for a something in the act seemed to give her pain, he laughingly took the baby and held it in his arms.
“But you won’t take it out, Mr Trethick,” protested Bess.