There was one night when she had come in, dressed for a dinner party, all in white, with something floating, rosy and iridescent about her. The dress had geraniums on it, at breast, waist and hem, a bunch on one shoulder, and flowing geranium-coloured ribbons. There were diamonds in her fair cloud of hair. She bent over the cot, smiling secretly with eyes and lips as if she were very pleased; and Judith hid her face from that angelic presence; and neither of them spoke a word. A man’s voice called: ‘Mildred!’ from the door: not Papa.
‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Here’s the child.’
Somebody tall and moustached came and stood beside Mamma and looked down, making jokes and asking silly questions, and laughing because she would neither answer nor look at him.
‘Don’t be silly, Judith,’ said Mamma.
‘She hasn’t a look of you,’ said the man.
‘No, nothing of me at all.’ Her voice sounded bored.
‘Are you sorry?’
‘Fred isn’t.’
They both laughed a little.
They stood leaning on the cot-rail in silence side by side, and Judith’s hand stole out unnoticed and touched a geranium. She gave it a little pull and it slipped out of the bunch into her hand.