Then Violet let it out.
It was on the night of Tuesday, the first of August, at bedtime. Ransome was leaning over the cot where the Baby lay, tossed half naked between sleep and waking, drowsy with dreams. She was adorable with her Little Rose face half unfolded, and the Honeypot smell of her silken skin.
Violet stood beside him, looking at the two, sullenly, but with a certain unwonted tolerance. She was strange and still, as if the unquiet spirit that had torn her was appeased.
"I say, it's worth while keeping this kid clean, Vi. It repays you."
"It pays Winny, I suppose. Else she wouldn't do it."
"Winny?"
"Yes. What are you staring at? She's a pretty kid," she added, as if the admission had been wrung from her.
"She's not been here?" said Ransome.
"Hasn't she! She was here all morning and all day yesterday, and pretty nearly every day last week."
"But—how did she get off? Why—it's sale-time!"