She looked provokingly cool and unruffled as she walked along by his side; her gown was white, with transparent puffy sleeves, her hat was white and very large, she had little white canvas shoes, long white Suéde gloves, and she carried a white parasol. 'I'm hanged,' said Larrie, and he stopped short in the middle of the road, 'look here, my good woman, are you going to take your baby, or are you not?' Dot revolved her sunshade round her little sweet face. 'No, my good man,' she said, 'I don't propose to carry your baby one step.' 'Then I shall drop it,' said Larrie. He held it up in a threatening position by the back of its crumpled coat, but Dot had gone sailing on. 'Find a soft place,' she called, looking back over her shoulder once and seeing him still standing in the road. 'Little minx,' he said under his breath. Then his mouth squared itself; ordinarily it was a pleasant mouth, much given to laughter and merry words; but when it took that obstinate look, one could see capabilities for all manner of things. He looked carefully around. By the roadside there was a patch of soft, green grass, and a wattle bush, yellow-crowned, beautiful. He laid the child down in the shade of it, he looked to see there were no ants or other insects near; he put on the bootee that was hanging by a string from the little rosy foot and he stuck the india-rubber comforter in its mouth. Then he walked quietly away and caught up to Dot. 'Well?' she said, but she looked a little startled at his empty arms; she drooped the sunshade over the shoulder nearest to him, and gave a hasty, surreptitious glance backward. Larrie strode along. 'You look fearfully ugly when you screw up your mouth like that,' she said, looking up at his set side face. 'You're an unnatural mother, Dot, that's what you are,' he returned hotly. 'By Jove, if I was a woman, I'd be ashamed to act as you do. You get worse every day you live. I've kept excusing you to myself, and saying you would get wiser as you grew older, and instead, you seem more childish every day.' She looked childish. She was very, very small in stature, very slightly and delicately built. Her hair was in soft gold-brown curls, as short as a boy's; her eyes were soft, and wide, and tender, and beautiful as a child's. When she was happy they were the colour of that blue, deep violet we call the Czar, and when she grew thoughtful, or sorrowful, they were like the heart of a great, dark purple pansy. She was not particularly beautiful, only very fresh, and sweet, and lovable. Larrie once said she always looked like a baby that has been freshly bathed and dressed, and puffed with sweet violet powder, and sent out into the world to refresh tired eyes. That was one of his courtship sayings, more than a year ago when she was barely seventeen. She was eighteen now, and he was telling her she was an unnatural mother.