By the window Jinny sat on a low ottoman suckling her babe,
and paying but scant heed to her sister-in-law's deliberations: to her
it seemed a much more important matter that the milk should flow
smoothly down the precious little throat, than that Mary's supper should
be a complete success. With her free hand she imprisoned the two little
feet, working one against the other in slow enjoyment; or followed the
warm little limbs up inside the swaddling, after the fashion of nursing
mothers.
The two women were in the spare bedroom, which was dusk and cool and
dimity-white; and they exchanged remarks in a whisper; for the lids had
come down more than once on the big black eyes, and now only lifted
automatically from time to time, to send a last look of utter satiation
at the mother-face. Mary always said: "She'll drop off sooner indoors,
dear." But this was not the whole truth. Richard had hinted that he
considered the seclusion of the house better suited to the business of
nursing than the comparative publicity of the verandah; for Jinny was
too absorbed in her task to take thought for the proprieties. Here now
she sat--she had grown very big and full since her marriage in the
generous, wide-lapped pose of some old Madonna.
Mary, thrown entirely on her own judgment, was just saying with
decision: "Well, better to err on the right side and have too much than
too little," and altering a four into a five, when steps came down the
passage and John entered the room.
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