“You’re magenta.”
“Come on then.”
When the door opened slowly and showed both their children standing in the soft glow of the lamps, Mr. and Mrs. Waring started up in some dismay.
“Is anything wrong, my dears? Are you ill?” cried Mr. Waring, while his wife came forward nervously and peered anxiously from head to foot of the two.
By this time even Gwen’s courage had waned and the old feeling of having come to judgment was fast gaining on her. Dacre was already a flaccid lump.
“You appear well, dears,” said Mrs. Waring relieved, raising herself from her inspection, “and Gwen’s colour seems to me to be healthier than usual.”
Gwen felt smothered and speechless but she made a vehement effort and got out in an appealing hushed kind of way,
“We are quite well, mother, but we came to see you, we thought you might have time to talk to us and let us stay a little, we have been good at our lessons so long.”
The child lifted her eyes as she spoke, and turned them hungrily from father to mother in a way that sensibly embarrassed them.
Mr. Waring took his finger from between the pages of a book, came forward, and looked searchingly into his child’s face and then at his wife, who seemed too astonished to take any active part in the proceedings.