“Down to the store. Just had supper.”
“But Thursday 's your night off.”
“Sure, but Pete went home. His mother 's supposed to be sick. Gosh, these clerks you get nowadays—overpay 'em and then they won't work!”
“That's tough, Dave. You'll have to work clear up till twelve, then.”
“Yup. Better drop in and have a cigar, if you're downtown.
“Well, I may, at that. May have to go down and see Mrs. Champ Perry. She's ailing. So long, Dave.”
Kennicott had not yet entered the house. He was conscious that Carol was near him, that she was important, that he was afraid of her disapproval; but he was content to be alone. When he had finished sprinkling he strolled into the house, up to the baby's room, and cried to Hugh, “Story-time for the old man, eh?”
Carol was in a low chair, framed and haloed by the window behind her, an image in pale gold. The baby curled in her lap, his head on her arm, listening with gravity while she sang from Gene Field:
'Tis little Luddy-Dud in the morning—
'Tis little Luddy-Dud at night:
And all day long
'Tis the same dear song
Of that growing, crowing, knowing little sprite.
Kennicott was enchanted.