Kant--perhaps three of us together--"
As he led the way upstairs he knew that Stephen was not entirely reassured
about him.
Mrs. Kant was a large, busy woman, like a horse--a horse who dislikes other
horses and sniffs an enemy in every wind. She very decidedly sniffed an
enemy now, and Mr. Zanti's blue suit paled before her fierce eyes. He
stepped back into the doorway again, treading upon Stephen. Peter, who was
always conscious that Mrs. Kant looked upon himself and Clare as two
entirely ridiculous and slightly impertinent children, stammered a little.
"You might go down and have your tea now, Mrs. Kant. I'll keep an eye upon
Stephen."
"I've had my tea, thank you, sir."
"Well, I'll relieve you of the baby for a little." She was sewing. She
snapped off a piece of thread with a sharp click of her teeth, sat silently
for a moment staring in front of her, then quietly got up. "Thank you,
sir," she said and left the room.
All three men breathed again as the door closed--then they were all
conscious of young Stephen.
The thing was, of course, absurd, but to all three of them there came the
conviction that the baby had been laughing at them for their terror of Mrs.
Kant. He was curled up on a chair by the fire, looking at them with his
wide eyes over his shoulder, and he seemed to say, "I don't care a snap
for the woman--why should you?" The blue ball was on the floor at the foot
of the chair, and the firelight leapt upon the frieze that Peter had so
carefully chosen--giants and castles, dwarfs and princesses running round
the room in red, and blue and gold.
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