"Oh yes, we'll wait," he said. They followed the girl into a narrow pa.s.sage, close and airless, and smelling of Irish stew. Sounds of warfare came from behind a closed door: a child began to cry loudly, and a boy's voice was heard, angry and tired.

The maid ushered the visitors into a dingy little drawing-room. Norah stopped her as she was departing.

"Could I see the children?"

The girl hesitated.

"They're a bit untidy," she said sullenly. "I ain't had no time to clean 'em up. There ain't no one to take them for a walk to-day."

"Oh, never mind how untidy they are," said Norah hastily. "Do send them in."

"Oh, all right," said the girl. "You'll tell the missus it was you arsked for 'em, won't yer?"

"Yes, of course."

She went out, and the Lintons looked at each other, and then at the hopeless little room. The furniture was black horsehair, very shiny and hard and slippery; there was a gimcrack bamboo overmantel, with much speckled gla.s.s, and the pictures were of the kind peculiar to London lodging-houses, apt to promote indigestion in the beholder.

There was one little window, looking out upon a blank courtyard and a dirty little side-street, where children played and fought incessantly, and stray curs nosed the rubbish in the gutters in the hope of finding food. There was nothing green to be seen, nothing clean, nothing pleasant.

"Oh, poor kiddies!" said Norah, under her breath.

The door opened and they came in; not shyly--the London child is seldom shy--but frankly curious, and in the case of the elder two, with suspicion. Three white-faced mites, as children well may be who have spent a London summer in a Bloomsbury square, where the very pavements sweat tar, and the breathless, sticky heat is as cruel by night as by day. A boy of six, straight and well-grown, with dark hair and eyes, who held by the hand a small toddling person with damp rings of golden hair: behind them a slender little girl, a little too shadowy for a mother's heart to be easy; with big brown eyes peeping elfishly from a cloud of brown curls.

The boy spoke sullenly.

"Eva told us to come in," he said.

"We wanted you to take care of us," said Norah. "You see, your mother isn't here."

"But we can't have tea," said the boy. "Eva says she isn't cleaned up yet, and besides, there's no milk, and very likely Mother'll forget the cakes, she said."

"But we don't want tea," said Norah. "We had a big lunch, not so long ago. And besides, we've got something nicer than tea. It's in his pocket." She nodded at her father, who suddenly smiled in the way that made every child love him, and, fishing in his pocket drew out a square white box--at sight of which the baby said delightedly, "Choc!"

and a kind of incredulous wonder, rather pitiful to see, came into the eyes of Geoffrey and his sister.

"There's a very difficult red ribbon on this," said Mr. Linton, fumbling with it. "I can't undo it." He smiled at little Alison.

"You show me how."

She was across the room in a flash, the baby at her heels, while Geoffrey made a slow step or two, and then stopped again.

"But you don't undone it 'tall," she said. "It sticks on top. You breaks this paper"--pointing to the seal--"and then it undones himself."

"You're quite right," said Mr. Linton, as the lid came off. "So it does. How did you know?"

"We did have lots of boxes when we lived with the wegiment," said the small girl; "but now the wegiment's in Fwance, and Daddy doesn't have enough pennies for chocs." Her busy fingers tossed aside tissue paper and silver wrapping, until the brown rows of sweets were revealed.

Then she put her hands by her sides.

"Is we to have some?"

"Oh, you poor little soul!" said David Linton hurriedly, and caught her up on his knee. He held the box in front of her.

"Now, which sort do you think is best for weeshy boys like that?" he asked, indicating the baby, who was making silent dives in the direction of the box. "And which do you like?--and Geoffrey?"

"Michael likes these." She fished one out carefully, and Michael fell upon it, sitting on the carpet that he might devour it at his ease.

"And Geoff and me--oh, we likes any 'tall."

"Then you shall have any at all." He held out his free hand. "Come on, Geoff." And the boy, who had hesitated, digging one foot into the carpet, suddenly capitulated and came.

"Are you an officer?" he asked presently.

"No, I'm too old," said David Linton. "But I have a big son who is one--and another boy too."

"What's their regiment?"

"The same as your father's."

"Truly?" A sparkle came into the boy's eyes. "I'm going to be in it some day."

"Of course you will--and Michael too, I suppose. And then you'll fight the Germans--that is, if there are any left."

"Daddy says there won't be. But I keep hoping there'll be just a few for me and Michael.'

"Alison wants some too," said that lady. "Wants to kill vem wiv my wevolver."

"A nice young fire-eater, you are," said Mr. Linton, laughing.

"Girls can't kill Germans, silly," said Geoffrey scornfully. "They have to stop at home and make bandages." To which his sister replied calmly, "Shan't: I'm going to kill forty 'leven," with an air of finality which seemed to end the discussion. Norah checked any further warlike reflections by finding a new layer of sweets as attractive as those on top, and the three heads cl.u.s.tered over the box in a pleasant anxiety of selection.

The carriages on the Tube railway had been very stuffy that afternoon.

Mrs. Hunt emerged thankfully from the crowded lift which shot up the pa.s.sengers from underground. She came with slow step into the dusty street. The flat was not far away: that was one comfort. But she sighed impatiently as she entered the building, to be confronted with the "Not Working" legend on the lift.

"Little wretch!" she said, alluding to the absent lift-boy. "I'm sure he's only playing pitch-and-toss round the corner." She toiled up the three long flights of stairs--her dainty soul revolting at their unswept dinginess. Stella Hunt had been brought up in a big house on a wind-swept c.u.mberland fell, and there was no day in crowded Bloomsbury when she did not long for the clean open s.p.a.ces of her girlhood.

She let herself into the flat with her latch-key. Voices came to her from the sitting-room, with a gurgle of laughter from little Michael.

She frowned.

"Eva should not have let the children in there," she thought anxiously. "They may do some damage." She opened the door hurriedly.

No one noticed her for a moment, David Linton, with Alison on one knee and Geoffrey on the other, was deep in a story of kangaroo-hunting.

On the floor sat Norah, with Michael tucked into her lap, his face blissful as she told on his fat fingers the tale of the little pigs who went to market. The box of chocolates was on the table, its scarlet ribbon making a bright spot of colour in the drab room. The mother looked for a minute in silence, something of the weariness dying out of her eyes.

Then Geoffrey looked up and saw her--a slight figure, holding a paper bag.

"Hallo!" he said. "I'm glad you didn't forget the cakes, 'cause we've got people to tea!"

Mr. Linton placed his burden on the hearthrug, and got up.

"How are you, Mrs. Hunt? I hope you don't mind our taking possession like this. We wanted to get acquainted."

"I could wish they were cleaner," said Mrs. Hunt, laughing, as she shook hands. "I've seldom seen three grubbier people. Geoff, dear, couldn't Eva have washed your face?"