“Thank you, Eva—yes,” said Major Hunt.
Whereat, the handmaiden withdrew, her heavy tread retreating to the kitchen to the accompaniment of song.
“Ow—Ow—Ow, it’s a lovely War!”
“I didn’t know her for a moment,” Major Hunt said, laughing. “You see, she never had less than six smuts on her face in Bloomsbury. She’s transformed, like all of you in this wonderful dream.”
“Tea isn’t a dream,” said his wife. She made it in the silver tea-pot, and they all fluttered about him, persuading him to eat: and made his tea a matter of some difficulty, since all three children insisted on getting as close to him as possible, and he had but one good hand. He did not mind. Once, as his wife brought him a refilled cup, she saw him lean his face down until it rested for a moment on the gold rings of Michael’s hair.
It was with some anxiety that Norah and her father went to call on their guest next morning.
“What will we do if he’s stiff-necked and proud, Dad?” Norah asked. “I simply couldn’t part with those babies now!”
“Let’s hope he won’t be,” said her father. “But if the worst comes to worst, we could let him pay us a little rent for the place—we could give the money to the Red Cross, of course.”
“’M!” said Norah, wrinkling her nose expressively. “That would be horrid—it would spoil all the idea of the place.”
But they found Major Hunt surprisingly meek.