He ran to the door and called Mrs. Brockett. She came and with an
exclamation hurried away for remedies.
Peter suddenly felt his hand seized--a hoarse whisper was in his
ear--"Peter--dear--go--at--once--I can't bear--you--to see me--like this.
Come back--another day."
He knelt, moved by an affection and tenderness that seemed stronger than
any emotion he had ever known, and kissed her. She whispered:
"Dear boy--"
On his way back to Chelsea, the orange lamps, the white streets powdered
with the evening glow, the rustling plane trees whispered to him, "You've
got to be knocked about--you've got to be knocked about--you've got to be
knocked about--" but the murmur was no longer sinister.
Still thinking of Norah, he went up to the nursery to see the boy in bed.
He remembered that Clare was going out alone to a party and that he would
have the evening to himself.
On entering the room, dark except for a nightlight by the boy's bed, some
unknown fear assailed him. He was instantly, at the threshold, conscious of
it. He stood for a moment in silence. Then realised what it was. The boy
was moaning in his sleep.
He went quickly over to the cot and bent down. Stephen's cheeks were
flaming, his hands very hot.
Peter rang the bell. Mrs. Kant appeared.
"Is there anything the matter with Stephen?"
Mrs. Kant looked at him, surprised, a little offended.
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