She heard almost as distinctly as though the voice were in her ear, “Oh, you mothers use your children as other people use drugs.  The child-habit, the drug-habit, the baby-habit, the morphine habit . . . two different ways of getting away from reality.”  That was what Marsh had said one day.  What terribly tarnishing things he did say.  How they did make you question everything.  She wondered what Neale would say to them.

She hoped to have a letter from Neale today.  She hoped so, suddenly, again, with such intensity, such longing, such passion that she said to herself, “What nonsense that was, that came into my head, out on the road in the dark, the other night, that Neale and I had let the flood-tide of emotion ebb out of our hearts!  What could have put such a notion into my head?” What crazy, fanciful creatures women are!  Always reaching out for the moon.  Yes, that must have been the matter with her lately, that Neale was away.  She missed him so, his strength and courage and affection.

“I’m awfully hungry,” remarked Mark in her ear.  “I feel the hole right here.”  He laid a small shapely hand on the center of his pajama-clad body, but he kept the other hand and arm around his mother’s neck, and held her close where he had pulled her to him in his little bed.  As he spoke he rubbed his peach-like cheek softly against hers.

A warm odor of sleep and youth and clean, soaped skin came up from him.  His mother buried her face in it as in a flower.

“Ooh!” he cried, laughing richly, “you’re tickling me.”

“I mean to tickle you!” she told him savagely, worrying him as a mother-cat does her kitten.  He laughed delightedly, and wriggled to escape her, kicking his legs, pushing at her softly with his hands, reaching for the spot back of her ear.  “I’ll tickle you,” he crowed, tussling with her, disarranging her hair, thudding his little body against her breast, as he thrashed about.  The silent house rang with their laughter and cries.

They were both flushed, with lustrous eyes, when the little boy finally squirmed himself with a bump off the bed and slid to the floor.

At this point the kitten came walking in, innocent-eyed and grave.  Mark scrambled towards her on his hands and knees.  She retreated with a comic series of stiff-legged, sideways jumps, that made him roll on the floor, chuckling and giggling, and grabbing futilely for the kitten’s paws.

Marise had stood up and was putting the loosened strands of her hair back in place.  The spell was broken.  Looking down on the laughing child, she said dutifully, “Mark, the floor’s cold.  You mustn’t lie down on it.  And, anyhow, you’re ever so late this morning.  Hop up, dear, and get into your clothes.”

“Oh, Mother, you dress me!” he begged, rolling over to look up at her pleadingly.

She shook her head.  “Now, Mark, that’s silly.  A great big boy like you, who goes to school.  Get up quick and start right in before you take cold.”