“Forget it,” said Miss Amber gently. “You will when you meet his wife. And their boy’s a darling.”
“His boy?” Reggie was startled.
“Oh, no. She was a widow. He worships her and the child.”
Reggie said nothing. It appeared to him that Captain Warnham, for a man who worshipped his wife, had a hungry eye on women. And the next moment Captain Warnham was called to attention. A small woman, still pretty though earnest, talked to him like a mother or a commanding officer. He was embarrassed, and when she had done with him he fled.
The small woman, who was austerely but daintily clad in black with some white at the neck, continued to flit among the company, finding everyone a job of work. “She says to one, Go, and he goeth, and to another, Come, and he cometh. And who is she, Joan?”
“Lady Chantry,” said Miss Amber. “She’s providence here, you know.”
And Lady Chantry was upon them. Reggie found himself looking down into a pair of uncommonly bright eyes and wondering what it felt like to be as strenuous as the little woman who was congratulating him on Joan, thanking him for being there and arranging his afternoon for him all in one breath. He had never heard anyone talk so fast. In a condition of stupor he saw Joan reft from him to tell the story of Cinderella to magic lantern pictures in one dormitory, while he was led to another to help in a scratch concert. And as the door closed on him he heard the swift clear voice of Lady Chantry exhorting staff and visitors to play round games.
He suffered. People who had no voices sang showy songs, people who had too much voice sang ragtime to those solemn, respectful children. In pity for the children and himself he set up as a conjurer, and the dormitory was growing merry when a shriek cut into his patter. “That’s only my bones creaking,” he went on quickly, for the children were frightened; “they always do that when I put the knife in at the ear and take it out of my hind leg. So. But it doesn’t hurt. As the motor-car said when it ran over the policeman’s feet. All done by kindness. Come here, Jenny Wren. You mustn’t use your nose as a money-box.” A small person submitted to have pennies taken out of her face.
The door opened and a pallid nurse said faintly: “The doctor. Are you the doctor?”
“Of course,” said Reggie. “One moment, people. Mr. Punch has fallen over the baby. It always hurts him. In the hump. Are we down-hearted? No. Pack up your troubles in the old kit bag——” He went out to a joyful roar of that lyric. “What’s the trouble?” The nurse was shaking.