“Apparently he is,” she said.
“It's time he were, if he's ever going to be,” said Honora, just as sweetly.
Everybody laughed but Mrs. Chandos, who began to betray an intense interest in some old lace in the corner of the room.
“I bought it for nothing, my dear,” said Mrs. Dallam, but she pinched Honora's arm delightedly. “How wicked of you!” she whispered, “but it serves her right.”
In the midst of the discussion of clothes and house rents and other people's possessions, interspersed with anecdotes of a kind that was new to Honora, Sidney Dallam appeared at the door and beckoned to her.
“How silly of you, Sid!” exclaimed his wife; “of course she doesn't want to go.”
“Indeed I do,” protested Honora, rising with alacrity and following her host up the stairs. At the end of a hallway a nurse, who had been reading beside a lamp, got up smilingly and led the way on tiptoe into the nursery, turning on a shaded electric light. Honora bent over the crib. The child lay, as children will, with his little yellow head resting on his arm. But in a moment, as she stood gazing at him, he turned and opened his eyes and smiled at her, and she stooped and kissed him.
“Where's Daddy?” he demanded.
“We've waked him!” said Honora, remorsefully.
“Daddy,” said the child, “tell me a story.”