Gwen grew comforted in her father’s arms. Yet to this man who had learned to watch the faces of the sick, there was something ominous in the child’s half-fretful eyes, in the way she flushed, and in the hurrying of her heart. He felt her hands; they were hot and feverish.
Husband and wife looked at each other.
“Tired, little one, eh?”
“Yes, very tired.”
She lay with her head on her father’s shoulder, looking with large, languid eyes up into his face.
“By-bye time for little girls who are going to see ‘Puss in Boots’ to-morrow.”
Gwen’s eyes brightened a little; her hands held the lappets of her father’s coat-collar.
“Oh—daddy!”
Murchison felt in his pocket and drew out the envelope with the yellow tickets.
“So you would like to see ‘Puss in Boots’?”