Tony was sleeping peacefully. Jan put on her dressing-gown and went downstairs. The nursery door was not shut, and a shaft of light shone through it into the dark hall. She pushed it open a little way and looked in.
Meg was sitting at the table, making muslin curtains as if her life depended on it. She wore her nightgown, and over it a queer little Japanese kimono of the green she loved. Her bare feet were pillowed upon William, who lay snoring peacefully under the table.
Her face was set and absorbed. A grave, almost stern, little face. And her rumpled hair, pushed back from her forehead, gave her the look of a Botticelli boy angel. It seemed to merge into tongues of flame where the lamplight caught it.
The window was wide open and the sudden opening of the door caused a draught, though the night was singularly still.
The lamp flickered.
Meg rested her hand on the handle of the sewing-machine, and the whirring noise stopped. She saw Jan in the doorway.
"Dear," said Jan gently, standing where she was, half in and half out of the door, "are you obliged to do this?"
Meg looked at her, and the dumb pain in that look went to Jan's heart.
Jan came towards her and drew the flaming head against her breast.
"I'm sorry I disturbed you," Meg murmured, "but I was obliged to do something."