Mrs. Thomas stood in the dark doorway watching the night, the trains, the flash and run of the two white figures.
"And now we must go in," she heard Severn say.
"No," cried the baby, wild and defiant as a bacchanal. She clung to him like a wild-cat.
"Yes," he said. "Where's your mother?"
"Give me a swing," demanded the child.
He caught her up. She strangled him hard with her young arms.
"I said, where's your mother?" he persisted, half smothered.
"She's op'tairs," shouted the child. "Give me a swing."
"I don't think she is," said Severn.
"She is. Give me a swing, a swi-i-ing!"
He bent forward, so that she hung from his neck like a great pendant. Then he swung her, laughing low to himself while she shrieked with fear. As she slipped he caught her to his breast.
"Mary!" called Mrs. Thomas, in that low, songful tone of a woman when her heart is roused and happy.
"Mary!" she called, long and sweet.
"Oh, no!" cried the child quickly.
But Severn bore her off. Laughing, he bowed his head and offered to the mother the baby who clung round his neck.
"Come along here," said Mrs. Thomas roguishly, clasping the baby's waist with her hands.
"Oh, no," cried the child, tucking her head into the young man's neck.
"But it's bed-time," said the mother.
She laughed as she drew at the child to pull her loose from Severn. The baby clung tighter, and laughed, feeling no determination in her mother's grip. Severn bent his head to loosen the child's hold, bowed, and swung the heavy baby on his neck. The child clung to him, bubbling with laughter; the mother drew at her baby, laughing low, while the man swung gracefully, giving little jerks of laughter.
"Let Mr. Severn undress me," said the child, hugging close to the young man, who had come to lodge with her parents when she was scarce a month old.
"You're in high favour to-night," said the mother to Severn. He laughed, and all three stood a moment watching the trains pass and repass in the sky beyond the garden-end. Then they went indoors, and Severn undressed the child.
She was a beautiful girl, a bacchanal with her wild, dull-gold hair tossing about like a loose chaplet, her hazel eyes shining daringly, her small, spaced teeth glistening in little passions of laughter within her red, small mouth. The young man loved her. She was such a little bright wave of wilfulness, so abandoned to her impulses, so white and smooth as she lay at rest, so startling as she flashed her naked limbs about. But she was growing too old for a young man to undress.
She sat on his knee in her high-waisted night-gown, eating her piece of bread-and-butter with savage little bites of resentment: she did not want to go to bed. But Severn made her repeat a Pater Noster. She lisped over the Latin, and Mrs. Thomas, listening, flushed with pleasure; although she was a Protestant, and although she deplored the unbelief of Severn, who had been a Catholic.
The mother took the baby to carry her to bed. Mrs. Thomas was thirty-four years old, full-bosomed and ripe. She had dark hair that twined lightly round her low, white brow. She had a clear complexion, and beautiful brows, and dark-blue eyes. The lower part of her face was heavy.
"Kiss me," said Severn to the child.
He raised his face as he sat in the rocking-chair. The mother stood beside, looking down at him, and holding the laughing rogue of a baby against her breast. The man's face was uptilted, his heavy brows set back from the laughing tenderness of his eyes, which looked dark, because the pupil was dilated. He pursed up his handsome mouth, his thick close-cut moustache roused.
He was a man who gave tenderness, but who did not ask for it. All his own troubles he kept, laughingly, to himself. But his eyes were very sad when quiet, and he was too quick to understand sorrow, not to know it.
Mrs. Thomas watched his fine mouth lifted for kissing. She leaned forward, lowering the baby, and suddenly, by a quick change in his eyes, she knew he was aware of her heavy woman's breasts approaching down to him. The wild rogue of a baby bent her face to his, and then, instead of kissing him, suddenly licked his cheek with her wet, soft tongue. He started back in aversion, and his eyes and his teeth flashed with a dangerous laugh.
"No, no," he laughed, in low strangled tones. "No dog-lick, my dear, oh no!"
The baby chuckled with glee, gave one wicked jerk of laughter, that came out like a bubble escaping.
He put up his mouth again, and again his face was horizontal below the face of the young mother. She looked down on him as if by a kind of fascination.
"Kiss me, then," he said with thick throat.
The mother lowered the baby. She felt scarcely sure of her balance. Again the child, when near to his face, darted out her tongue to lick him. He swiftly averted his face, laughing in his throat.
Mrs. Thomas turned her face aside; she would see no more.
"Come then," she said to the child. "If you won't kiss Mr. Severn nicely--"
The child laughed over the mother's shoulder like a squirrel crouched there. She was carried to bed.