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FOUR.

Behind them he could hear the stir of Mrs Hamps's departure. She and
Maggie were coming down the stairs. Guessing not the dramatic arrival
of Janet Orgreave and the mysterious nephew, Mrs Hamps, having peeped
into the empty dining-room, said: "I suppose the dear boy has gone," and
forthwith went herself. Edwin smiled cruelly at the thought of what her
joy would have been actually to inspect the mysterious nephew at close
quarters, and to learn the strange suspicious truth that he was not a
nephew after all.

"Auntie!" yelled the boy across the garden.

"Come along, we must go now," Janet retorted.

"No! I want you to swing me. Make me swing very high."

"George!"

"Let him swing a bit," said Edwin. "I'll go and swing him." And
calling loud to the boy: "I'll come and swing you."

"He's dreadfully spoiled," Janet protested. "You'll make him worse."

"I don't care," said Edwin carelessly.

He seemed to understand, better than he had ever done with Clara's
litter, how and why parents came to spoil their children. It was not
because they feared a struggle of wills; but because of the unreasoning
instinctive pleasure to be derived from the conferring of pleasure,
especially when the pleasure thus conferred might involve doubtful
consequences. He had not cared for the boy, did not care for him. In
theory he had the bachelor's factitious horror of a spoiled child.
Nevertheless he would now support the boy against Janet. His instinct
said: "He wants something. I can give it him. Let him have it. Never
mind consequences. He shall have it."

He crossed the damp grass, and felt the breeze and the sun. The sky was
a moving medley of Chinese white and Prussian blue, that harmonised
admirably with the Indian red architecture which framed it on all sides.
The high trees in the garden of the Orgreaves were turning to rich
yellows and browns, and dead leaves slanted slowly down from their
summits a few reaching even the Clayhanger garden, speckling its
evergreen with ochre. On the other side of the west wall traps and
carts rattled and rumbled and creaked along Trafalgar Road.

The child had stopped swinging, and greeted him with a most heavenly
persuasive grateful smile. A different child! A sudden angel, with
delicate distinguished gestures! ... A wondrous screwing-up of the eyes
in the sun! Weak eyes, perhaps! The thick eye