"The boy."
A child of two years, in charge of a servant-girl, was at the gate of one of the cottages behind them.
"You take him about with you?"
"He was left with some people in town; I've just had him down, that's all. We finish on Saturday, and there's the sea; I thought two or three weeks of it would do him good. Will you—may he come over to you?"
He held out his arms, and the child, released from the servant's clasp, toddled smilingly across the grass, a plump little body in pelisse and cape. The gaitered legs covered the ground slowly, and she watched his child running towards him for what seemed a long time before Carew caught him up.
"This is Archie," he said diffidently; "this is he."
"Oh," she said, in constrained tones, "this is he?"
The man stood him on the bench, with a pretence of carelessness that was ill done, and righted his hat quickly, as if afraid that the action was ridiculous. The sight of him in this association had something infinitely strange to her—something that sharpened the sense of separation, and made the past appear intensely old and ended.
"Put him down," she said; "he isn't comfortable."
"Do you think he looks strong?"