"
Helen put her hand to her throat.
"I think it is a foolish name for a violoncello," she said, coldly.
"Not at all," explained Ronnie. "It seems to me more appropriate every
day. My 'cello is the nicest infant that ever was; does what it's told,
gives no trouble, and only speaks when it's spoken to!"
Helen bent over the kettle. It was boiling. She could hear the water
bubbling; the lid began making little tentative leaps. Without lifting
her eyes, she made the tea.
Ronnie talked on volubly. It was so perfect to be back in his own
chair; to watch Helen making tea; and to have the Infant safely there to
show her.
Helen did not seem quite so much interested or so enthusiastic as he had
expected.
Suddenly he remembered Aubrey's joke.
Helen at that moment was handing him his cup of tea. He took it,
touching her fingers with his own as he did so; a well-remembered little
sign between them, because the first time it had dawned upon Helen that
Ronnie loved her, and wanted her to know it, was on a certain occasion
when he had managed to touch her fingers with his, as she handed him a
cup of tea.
He did so now, smiling up at her. He was so happy, that things were
becoming a little dream-like again; not a nightmare--that would be
impossible with Helen so near--but an exquisite dream; a dream too
perfectly beautiful to be true.
"Darling," he said, "I brought the Infant home in a canvas bag.
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