ome fatality
she contrived to call either on a Sunday when they had all gone to
Wandsworth or on a Saturday when Ransome was not there. Once or twice in
summer, when he was kept at the counting-house during stock-taking or
the sales (for Woolridge's season of high pressure came months earlier
than Starker's), Winny had dropped in toward supper-time, when Violet
had asked her to keep her company. But she always left before Ranny
could get back, because Violet told her (as if she didn't know it) that
Ranny would be too tired to see her home.

One Saturday evening in August he had come in about nine o'clock after a
turn on Wimbledon Common. Granville with its gate, its windows, and all
its doors flung open, had a scared, abandoned look. A strange sound came
from Granville, the sound of a low singing from upstairs, from--yes, it
was from the front bedroom.

He went through the lower rooms and out into the garden. Nobody was
there. The Baby's cradle and pram were empty. And still from upstairs
the voice came singing. In all his knowledge of her he had never known
Violet to sing.

He went upstairs. The door of the front bedroom was closed as if on a
mystery. He knocked and opened it tentatively, like a man who respected
mysteries. The voice had left off singing, and was saying something. It
was a voice he knew, but not Violet's voice.

It was saying, with a lilt that was almost a song, "Upsy daisy, upsy
daisy, den!"

There was a pause and then "Diddums!" and a sound of kissing.

He found Winny Dymond sitting there, alone, with the Baby on her knee.
He caught her in the act of slipping a nightgown over its little naked
body, that was all rosy from its bath. The place was full of the
fragrance of soap and violet powder and clean linen.

"Hello, Winky!" he said. "What a lark!" He stood fascinated.

But Winky with a baby in her lap was not capable of levity. It struck
him that the Baby was serious, too.

"Violet's just this minute gone out for a breath of air," she said. "I'm
putting Baby to bed for her. She's been very fretful all day."

"Who? Virelet?"

"No, Baby. (Did it then!)."

"How's that?" (He sat perched on the footrail of the bedstead, for there
was not much room to spare, what with the wardrobe and Winny and the
bath.)

"I don't know. But I fancy she isn't very well."

The Baby confirmed her judgment by a cry of anguish.

"I say, what's wrong?"

"I think," said Winny, "it's the hot weather and the