"How old is it?" the Princess inquired, after an interval of
silence, during which Miss Honey and Caroline regarded her with a
placid interest, and Delia stroked the General's hair, from which
she had taken the absurd lace cap.
"He's eight months, Madam, last week--eight months and ten days,
really."
"That's not very old, now, is it?" pursued the lady. "I suppose they
don't know very much, do they, so young?"
"Indeed he does, though," Delia protested, "You'll be surprised.
Just watch him, now. Look at Delia, darlin'; where's Delia?"
The General withdrew his lingering gaze from the clothespin, and
turned his blue eyes wonderingly up to her. The corner of his mouth
trembled, widened, his eyelids crinkled, and then he smiled
delightfully, straight into the eyes of the nurse, stretched up a
wavering pink hand, and patted her cheek. A soft, gurgling
monosyllable, difficult of classification but easy to interpret,
escaped him.
The Princess smiled appreciatively, and moved with a stately, long
step toward them.
"That was very pretty," she said, but Delia did not hear her.
"My baby, my own baby!" she murmured with a shiver, and hiding her
face in the General's neck she sobbed aloud.
Miss Honey, shocked and embarrassed, twisted her feet nervously and
looked at the inlaid floor.
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