“But we can’t have tea,” said the boy. “Eva says she isn’t cleaned up yet, and besides, there’s no milk, and very likely Mother’ll forget the cakes, she said.”
“But we don’t want tea,” said Norah. “We had a big lunch, not so long ago. And besides, we’ve got something nicer than tea. It’s in his pocket.” She nodded at her father, who suddenly smiled in the way that made every child love him, and, fishing in his pocket drew out a square white box—at sight of which the baby said delightedly, “Choc!” and a kind of incredulous wonder, rather pitiful to see, came into the eyes of Geoffrey and his sister.
“There’s a very difficult red ribbon on this,” said Mr. Linton, fumbling with it. “I can’t undo it.” He smiled at little Alison. “You show me how.”
She was across the room in a flash, the baby at her heels, while Geoffrey made a slow step or two, and then stopped again.
“But you don’t undone it ’tall,” she said. “It sticks on top. You breaks this paper”—pointing to the seal—“and then it undones himself.”
“You’re quite right,” said Mr. Linton, as the lid came off. “So it does. How did you know?”
“We did have lots of boxes when we lived with the wegiment,” said the small girl; “but now the wegiment’s in Fwance, and Daddy doesn’t have enough pennies for chocs.” Her busy fingers tossed aside tissue paper and silver wrapping, until the brown rows of sweets were revealed. Then she put her hands by her sides.
“Is we to have some?”
“Oh, you poor little soul!” said David Linton hurriedly, and caught her up on his knee. He held the box in front of her.
“Now, which sort do you think is best for weeshy boys like that?” he asked, indicating the baby, who was making silent dives in the direction of the box. “And which do you like?—and Geoffrey?”