“Dry up, do,” he said, rather tenderly for him. And, finding that though she did not at once take his advice she did not seem to resent it, he put his arm awkwardly across her shoulders and rubbed his head against her ear.
“There!” he said, in the tone of one administering a priceless cure for all possible sorrows. “Now, what’s up?”
“I don’t feel laughish myself,” said Cyril, dismally.
“Well, then,” said Anthea, leaning her ear against his head, “it’s Mother.”
“What’s the matter with Mother?” asked Cyril, with apparent want of sympathy. “She was all right in her letter this morning.”
“You’re not the only one,” said Cyril briefly, and the brevity of his tone admitted a good deal.
“Oh, yes,” said Anthea, “I know. We all want her all the time. But I want her now most dreadfully, awfully much. I never wanted anything so much. That Imogen child—the way the ancient British Queen cuddled her up! And Imogen wasn’t me, and the Queen was Mother. And then her letter this morning! And about The Lamb liking the salt bathing! And she bathed him in this very bath the night before she went away—oh, oh, oh!”
“Cheer up,” he said. “You know my inside thinking that I was doing? Well, that was partly about Mother. We’ll soon get her back. If you’ll chuck it, like a sensible kid, and wash your face, I’ll tell you about it. That’s right. You let me get to the tap. Can’t you stop crying? Shall I put the door-key down your back?”
“That’s for noses,” said Anthea, “and I’m not a kid any more than you are,” but she laughed a little, and her mouth began to get back into its proper shape. You know what an odd shape your mouth gets into when you cry in earnest.
“Look here,” said Cyril, working the soap round and round between his hands in a thick slime of grey soapsuds. “I’ve been thinking. We’ve only just _played_ with the Amulet so far. We’ve got to _work_ it now—work it for all it’s worth. And it isn’t only Mother either. There’s Father out there all among the fighting. I don’t howl about it, but I _think_—Oh, bother the soap!” The grey-lined soap had squirted out under the pressure of his fingers, and had hit Anthea’s chin with as much force as though it had been shot from a catapult.
“There now,” she said regretfully, “now I shall have to wash my face.”