“Bring Alfy to me,” called Meg, yielding to the mother feeling. “Oh, no, damn it!” said George, “let Oswald take him.” “Yes,” replied Meg bitterly, “let anybody take him so long as he’s out of your sight. You never ought to have children, you didn’t——” George murmured something about “to-day.” “Come then!” said Meg with a whole passion of tenderness, as she took the red-haired baby and held it to her bosom, “Why, what is it then, what is it, my precious? Hush then pet, hush then!” The baby did not hush. Meg rose from her chair and stood rocking the baby in her arms, swaying from one foot to the other. “He’s got a bit of wind,” she said. We tried to continue the meal, but everything was awkward and difficult. “I wonder if he’s hungry,” said Meg, “let’s try him.” She turned away and gave him her breast. Then he was still, so she covered herself as much as she could, and sat down again to tea. We had finished, so we sat and waited while she ate. This disjointing of the meal, by reflex action, made Emily and me more accurate. We were exquisitely attentive, and polite to a nicety. Our very speech was clipped with precision, as we drifted to a discussion of Strauss and Debussy. This of course put a breach between us two and our hosts, but we could not help it; it was our only way of covering over the awkwardness of the occasion. George sat looking glum and listening to us. Meg was quite indifferent. She listened occasionally, but her position as mother made her impregnable. She sat eating calmly, looking down now and again at her baby, holding us in slight scorn, babblers that we were. She was secure in her high maternity; she was mistress and sole authority. George, as father, was first servant; as an indifferent father, she humiliated him and was hostile to his wishes. Emily and I were mere intruders, feeling ourselves such. After tea we went upstairs to wash our hands. The grandmother had had a second stroke of paralysis, and lay inert, almost stupified. Her large bulk upon the bed was horrible to me, and her face, with the muscles all slack and awry, seemed like some cruel cartoon. She spoke a few thick words to me. George asked her if she felt all right, or should he rub her. She turned her old eyes slowly to him. “My leg—my leg a bit,” she said in her strange guttural. He took off his coat, and pushing his hand under the bed-clothes, sat rubbing the poor old woman’s limb patiently, slowly, for some time. She watched him for a moment, then without her turning her eyes from him, he passed out of her vision and she lay staring at nothing, in his direction. “There,” he said at last, “is that any better then, mother?” “Ay, that’s a bit better,” she said slowly. “Should I gi’e thee a drink?” he asked, lingering, wishing to minister all he could to her before he went. She looked at him, and he brought the cup. She swallowed a few drops with difficulty.