and he knew all that
she knew, and he knew that this child was an intruder.

They clenched themselves against him. They were kind to him, but they
would silently scheme to be alone together. If they were all three in
the garden, she sitting with her needlework, Richard playing with his
engine and Roger making daisy-chains, there would come a time when she
would arise and go into the house. She would not look at Richard before
she went, for in externals she forced herself to be loyal to Roger. When
she got into the house she would linger about the rooms at factitious
operations, pouring out of the flower-glasses water that was not stale,
or putting on the kettle far too soon, until she heard Richard coming to
look for her, lightfootedly but violently, banging doors behind him,
knocking into furniture. He would halt at the door and stand for a
moment, twiddling the handle round and round, as if he had not really
been so very keen to come to her, and she would go on indifferently with
her occupation. But presently she would feel that she must steal a
glance at the face that she knew would be looking so adorable now,
peering obliquely round the edge of the door, the lips bright with
vitality as with wet paint and the eyes roguish as if he felt she were
teasing life by enjoying it so, and the dear square head, browny-gold
like the top of a bun, and the little bronze body standing so fresh and
straight in the linen suit. So her glance would slide and slide, and
their eyes would meet and he would run to her. If he had anything on his
conscience he would choose this moment for confession. "Mother, I told a
lie yesterday. But it wasn't about anything really important, so we
won't talk about it, will we?"

Then he would clamber over her, like a squirrel going up a tree-trunk,
until she tumbled into some big chair and rated him for being so
boisterous, and drew him close to her so that he revelled in her love
for him as in long meadow-grass. Even as she imagined that night before
Peacey came, he did not struggle in her arms but gave her kiss for kiss.
They would be sphered in joy, until they heard a sniff and saw the other
child standing at the open door, resting its flabby cheek on the handle,
surveying them with wild eyes. There would be a moment of dislocation.
Then she would cry, "Come along, Roger!" and Richard would slip from her
knee and the other child would come and very gratefully put its arms
round her neck and kiss h