Pete put the child to stand with its back to the chair, and then leaned towards it with his arms outspread. The child staggered a step in the sea of one yard's space that lay between, looked back at the irrecoverable chair, looked down on the distant ground, and then plunged forward with a nervous laugh, and fell into Pete's arms.
“Bravo! Wasn't that nice, Phil? Ever see anything prettier than a child's first step? Again, Kitty, bogh! But go to your new father this time. Aisy, now, aisy!” (in a thick voice). “Grive me a kiss first!” (with a choking gurgle). “One more, darling!” (with a broken laugh). “Now face the other way. One—two—are you ready, Phil?”
Phil held out his long white trembling hands.
“Yes,” with a smothered sob.
“Three—four—and away!”
The child's fingers slipped into Philip's palm; there was another halt, another plunge, another nervous laugh, and then the child was in Philip's arms, his head was over it, and he was clasping it to his heart.
After a moment, Philip, without raising his eyes, said, “Pete!”
But Pete had stolen softly from the room.
“Pete! where are you?”
Where was he? He was on the road outside, crying like a boy—no, like a man—at thought of the happiness he had left upstairs.