Mr. Bonstone’s lip drooped. Ellen didn’t know what an adventurous, strange career he had had.
How carefully he went down the steps with the baby, after he had thanked Ellen for her interest, and had slipped something into her hand. He held it quite nicely to him all the way home. I think he liked it.
Mrs. Bonstone must have been listening for the taxi, for she met us in the doorway.
She never said a word, just held out her arms. Her husband put the baby in them, and she ran to the smoking-room.
There she was, unwrapping it when Mr. Bonstone came in.
“Oh, Norman, Norman, Norman,” she said over and over again, “what a dear little brown baby!”
She kissed it, and squeezed it, and asked how old it was, and where he had got it.
He said it was a year old.
“Ah!” she said profoundly, “then I am twelve months ahead of Clossie. Isn’t it a darling,” she went on, “such liquid eyes, and such lovely hair, and it isn’t a bit frightened.”
“It’s been used to living in a crowd,” he said dryly.