"Don't be silly. I shan't be five minutes. You'll only disturb him."
"I want to see his little toes, don't you?"
"Pheasant, you're nothing but a baby yourself. . . . I say, someone's been at my top drawer!"
"Not me! Not Mooey! Oh, Piers, if you'd only seen the face he made then! His mouth just like a pink button and his eyebrows raised. He looked positively supercilious."
"If I thought young Finch had been at my cigarettes . . ." He muttered as he undressed.
"Well, he had none of his own to-night. I know that. What would you do?"
"I'd show him. . . . Good Lord, I wish you had heard Uncle Ernest going on about his new coat after you left! I'll bet you a new silk undie thing to a pair of socks that he ends by wearing his winter coat after all."
"Then you'd go and say something to discourage him. Just a few words from you like 'Some day, this, Uncle Ernest,' or you might simply come into the house shivering."
"Well, you're free to tell him how balmy it is, and how perfect his shoulders look in the new coat."
"No. I'm not going to bet. It's against my principles. From now on I've got to be setting a good example to my little baby."
Piers sputtered with laughter. He was in his pyjamas now. "Shall I put out the light?"
"Piers, come here; I want to whisper."
He came and bent over her. Lying relaxed on the bed, her hair rumpled, a white shoulder showing above the slipped-down nightdress, she seemed suddenly very tender and appealing to Piers. She seemed as sweet and delicately vigorous as one of the young silver birches in the ravine.
His heart quickened its beat. "Yes? What does she want?" His eyes glowed softly into hers.
She hooked an arm around his neck. "I'm hungry, Piers. Would you—like a darling?"
