Lucy puckered her wide forehead.
"Why, no. No, I don't believe I do," she said, as if she was finding it out with a little surprise.
Rhoda saw her one day in July. In a few weeks, she told Rhoda (Peter was out that afternoon), she and Denis were going up to Scotland, to stay with people.
"We shall miss you," said Rhoda dully.
"And me you," said Lucy, with a more acute sense of it.
"Peter'll miss you dreadfully," said Rhoda. She was lying on the sofa, pale and tired in the heat.
"Only," said Lucy, "next month you'll both be feeling too interested to miss anyone."
"Peter," said Rhoda, "cares more about the baby coming than I do."
Lucy said, "Peter loves little weak funny things like that." She was a little sad that Rhoda didn't seem to care more about the baby; babies are such entrancing toys to those who like toys, people like her and Peter.
Suddenly Lucy saw that two large tears were rolling down Rhoda's pale cheeks as she lay. Lucy knelt by the sofa side and took Rhoda's hand in both of hers and laid her cheek upon it.