“Geoff!” said Major Hunt amazedly. “But how?—I don’t understand.”
There were other people coming round the corner: his wife, tall and slender, with her eyes shining; behind her, Norah Linton, with Alison trotting beside her, and Michael perched on one shoulder. At sight of his father Michael drummed with his heels to Norah’s great discomfort, and uttered shrill squeaks of joy.
“Come on,” said Geoffrey breathlessly, tugging at the door. “Come on! they’re all here.”
“Come on, Hunt,” said David Linton, jumping out. “Let me help you—mind your hand.”
“I suppose I’ll wake up in a moment,” said Major Hunt, getting out slowly. “At present, it’s a nice dream. I don’t understand anything. How are you, Miss Linton?”
“You don’t need to wake up,” said his wife, in a voice that shook a little. Her brave eyes were misty. “Only, you’re home.”
“It’s the loveliest home, Daddy!” Geoff’s hand was in his father’s, pulling him on.
“There’s tsickens!” said Alison in a high pipe. “An’ a ackit wiv toys.”
“She means an attic,” said Geoffrey scornfully. “Come on, Daddy. We’ve got such heaps to show you.”
Somehow they found themselves indoors. Norah and her father had disappeared; they were all together, father, mother, and babies, in a big room flooded with sunlight: a room covered with a thick red matting with heavy rugs on it; a room with big easy-chairs and gate-legged tables, and a wide couch heaped with bright cushions, drawn close to an open casement. There was a fire of logs, crackling cheerily in the wide fireplace: there were their own belongings—photographs, books, his own pipe-rack and tobacco-jar: there were flowers everywhere, smiling a greeting. Tea-cups and silver sparkled on a white-cloth; a copper kettle bubbled over a spirit-lamp. And there were his own people clinging round him, welcoming, holding him wherever little hands could grasp: the babies fresh, clean, even rosy; his wife’s face, no longer tired. And there was no Bloomsbury anywhere.