“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.
“He's had a little cold all day, sir. I've kept him indoors.”
“Have you taken his temperature?”
“Yes, sir, nothing at all unusual. He often goes up and down.”
“Have you spoken to your mistress?”
“Yes, sir. She agrees with me that there is nothing unusual—”
He brushed past the woman and went to his wife's bedroom.
She was dressed and was putting on a string of pearls, a wedding present from her father. She smiled up at him—
“Clare, do you know Stephen's ill?”
“No, it's only a cold. I've been up to see him—”
He took her hand—she smiled up at him—” Did you enjoy your visit.” She fastened the necklace.
“Clare, stay in to-night. It may be nothing but if the boy got worse—”
“Do you want me to stay?”
“Yes.”
