A grieved voice reached Catherine from the half-dark landing.
“Mother?”
“Yes.”
“Why can’t we go to the pantomime?”
“Go into the nursery, dear, and don’t grumble.”
“Bert Smith’s going. I call it a beastly shame.”
“Jack, if you say another word I shall send you to bed.”
Five minutes had hardly elapsed before Catherine heard her husband’s footsteps on the path, and the rattle of his latch-key in the lock. In the front room he found poor Gwen still sobbing spasmodically in her mother’s arms.
The sight damped the glow on Murchison’s face.
“Hallo, what’s the matter?” and the anxious lines came back in his forehead.