"Have you ever tried it?" he demanded.
Over her shoulder she flashed back at him a glance which he did not return. She had never, to tell the truth, given her husband's partner much consideration. He had existed in her mind solely as an obliging shopkeeper with whom Lily had unlimited credit, and who handed her over the counter such things as she desired. And to-night, in contrast to Trixton Brent, Sidney Dallam suggested the counter more than ever before. He was about five and forty, small, neatly made, with little hands and feet; fast growing bald, and what hair remained to him was a jet black. His suavity of manner and anxious desire to give one just the topic that pleased had always irritated Honora.
Good shopkeepers are not supposed to have any tastes, predilections, or desires of their own, and it was therefore with no little surprise that, after many haphazard attempts, Honora discovered Mr, Dallam to be possessed by one all-absorbing weakness. She had fallen in love, she remarked, with little Sid on the beach, and Sidney Dallam suddenly became transfigured. Was she fond of children? Honora coloured a little, and said "yes." He confided to her, with an astonishing degree of feeling, that it had been the regret of his life he had not had more children. Nobody, he implied, who came to his house had ever exhibited the proper interest in Sid.
"Sometimes," he said, leaning towards her confidentially, "I slip upstairs for a little peep at him after dinner."
"Oh," cried Honora, "if you're going to-night mayn't I go with you? I'd love to see him in bed."
"Of course I'll take you," said Sidney Dallam, and he looked at her so gratefully that she coloured again.
"Honora," said Lily Dallam, when the women were back in the drawing-room, "what did you do to Sid? You had him beaming—and he hates dinner parties."
"We were talking about children," replied Honora, innocently.
"Children!"
"Yes," said Honora, "and your husband has promised to take me up to the nursery."