Instead of singing, Majendie, with his eyes on Anne, flung his arms round Peggy and lifted her up and covered her little face with kisses.  The child lay across his knees with her head thrown back and her legs struggling, and laughed for terror and delight.

Anne spoke with some austerity.  “Put her down, Walter; I don’t care for all this hugging and kissing.  It excites the child.”

Peggy was put down.  But when bed-time came she achieved an inimitable revenge.  Anne had to pick her up from the floor to carry her to bed.  At first Peggy refused to be carried; then she surrendered on conditions that brought the blood to her mother’s face.

From her mother’s arms Peggy’s head hung down as she struggled to say good-night a second time to daddy.  He rose, and for a moment he and Anne stood linked together by the body of their child.

And Peggy reiterated, “I’ll be a good girl, mummy, if you’ll kiss daddy.”

Anne raised her face to his and closed her eyes, and Majendie felt her soft lips touch his forehead without parting.

That night, when he refused his supper, she looked up anxiously.

“Are you not well, Walter?”

“I’ve got a splitting headache.”

“You’d better take some anti-pyrine.”

“I’m damned if I’ll take any anti-pyrine.”

“Well, don’t, dear; but you needn’t be so violent.”

“I beg your pardon.”

He cooled his hands against a jug of iced water, and pressed them to his forehead.

She left her place and came and sat beside him.  “Come,” she said in the sweet voice that pierced him, “come and lie down in the study.”  She laid her hand on his shoulder, and he rose and followed her.

She made him lie down on the sofa in the study, and put cushions under his head, and brought him the anti-pyrine.  She sat beside him and dabbed eau-de-cologne all over his forehead, and blew on it with her soft breath.  She paused, and sat very still, watching him, for a moment that seemed eternity.  She didn’t like the flush on his cheek nor the queer burning brilliance in his eyes.  She was afraid he was in for a bad illness, and fear made her kind.

“Tell me how you feel, dear,” she said gently.  She was determined to be very gentle with him.

“Can’t you see how I feel?” he answered.

She laid her firm, cool hand upon his forehead; and he gave a cry, the low cry she had once heard and dreamed of afterwards.  He flung up his arm, and caught at her hand, and dragged it down, and held it close against his mouth, and kissed it.

She drew in her breath.  Her hand stiffened against his in her effort to withdraw it; and when he had let it go, she turned from him and left him without a word.

He threw himself face downwards on the cushions, wounded and ashamed.

CHAPTER XXV

It was Friday evening, the Friday that followed that Sunday when Majendie’s hope had risen at the touch of his wife’s hand, and died again under her repulse.