darling. He _is_ a pet. There, did you see him smiling? You _darling_.
Tea I _must_ have, Jane, dear--_at_ once."

"You go on. I'm coming. Ring for it. Tell Hunter. I'll be with you in
two minutes, mother."

Mrs. Tunster left her rattle in the nurse's hands. Then, with the two
others, departed. Outside the nursery door she said in an American
whisper:--"Jane isn't quite right yet. Went about a bit too soon. She's
headstrong. She always has been. Doesn't do for her to think too much."

Her Grace was alone now with her son and heir and the nurse. She bent
over the cot and smiled upon Henry Fitzgeorge; he smiled back at her,
and even gave an absent-minded crow; but his gaze almost instantly swung
back again to the window, through which, deeply and with solemn
absorption, he watched the clouds.

She gave him her hand, and he closed his fingers about one of hers; but
even that grasp was abstracted, as though he were not thinking of her at
all, but was simply behaving like a gentleman.

"I don't believe he's realised me a bit, nurse," she said, turning away
from the cot.

"Well, Your Grace, they always take time. It's early days."

"But what's he thinking of all the time?"

"Oh, just nothing, Your Grace."