The boy Jack was jumping from foot to foot at the other window.
“Look, mother, look, there’s old Mr. Tomkin’s farm! And there’s the river. Look—and the kingcups are out! Gwen used to call ’em—”
He stopped suddenly, for his mother had drawn him to her and smothered the words with her mouth.
“You take care of the rugs and umbrellas, dear.”
“Yes. Shall I get ’em down?”
“In a minute. Sit still, dear, and don’t worry.”
She looked across quickly at her husband. Their eyes met. He was pale, but he smiled at her.
“Here we are, at last.”
“At last.”
Both felt that the ordeal had begun.