"Do you think that little boys who wear beautiful pyjama suits just like their daddie's, ought to wake up and cry in the night?" Mrs. Wentworth inquired dreamily, her chin resting on the top of Punch's head, her eyes fixed on the fire.
"I fink I could sleep till Lallie comes," Punch announced in particularly wide-awake tones. "Hush!"
For nearly ten minutes they sat still and silent, then Punch suddenly gave a little wriggle and sat up on his mother's knee, stiff and expectant: every nerve tingling, every muscle taut.
"I fink I hear Lallie," he cried excitedly.
There was a swish and frou-frou of skirts in the passage outside as Lallie, followed by the triumphant Nana, came swiftly into the room. She flung her heavy cloak on a chair, and ran across and knelt by Mrs. Wentworth, exclaiming:
"How dear of you to send! I do so sympathise with Punch; I nearly go crazy if I half remember a tune and there's no way of getting the rest of it."
"T'int the chune; it's it all," said Punch magisterially. "Now you can sing Kevin."
"But do you know what he means?" Mrs. Wentworth asked.
"I should think I do. Oh, might I hold him? It's a longish song."
She was dressed in a little straight white silk dress embroidered with green, and her favourite green ribbon was threaded through her hair. Slender arms and neck were bare, and her cheeks flushed with her run across the playground in the cold air. She might have been Deirdre herself, product of sun and dew and woodland moss, so fresh and sparkling was she. Punch held out his arms to her.