“Where is Sylvester, and Baby? Are they all right, my pet?”
Althea nodded.
“Baby’s all covered with snow,” she explained. “Besser’s playing she’s a egg and he’s a hen, and he’s sitting on her!”
“Oh, mercy!” exclaimed Marjorie. “What a naughty boy! Bring them both home at once, Althea—he’ll hurt Baby. Quick, now!”
Althea rushed off, leaving the front door open. Marjorie excused herself to close it. She was surprised that Lady Denby exhibited neither amusement nor concern in the family affairs. Indeed, she wondered if deafness might not account for her curious austerity of manner. Old Mrs. Kettlewell, at home, was like that, but everybody knew it was because she couldn’t hear half of what was going on.
“Do let me give you some more tea,” she urged, her voice slightly raised. Anxiety distracted her. She scarcely knew what she was doing. Suppose the baby should be smothered in the snow? Suppose the children couldn’t dig her out? She felt that she should go to the door, at least, to make sure that Althea was successful in her mission. But something in Lady Denby’s manner prevented her. She couldn’t explain it, yet she simply couldn’t find an excuse to leave the room.
Her hands fluttered nervously over the table and her eyes haunted the door.
“Cream, and no sugar, I think you said, Mrs.—er—er—”
“Lady Denby,” corrected the other, with gentle reproof.
Apologies. Increased nervousness. Desperate effort at self-control. Where could they be, those children of hers? Sipping tea like this, when anything might be happening out there in the snow! It was cruel, cruel!