He shook it more lustily and the response was louder. He was, it
seemed, master of this charming thing and could force it to do what he
wished. He appealed to his Friend. Was not this a charming thing that he
had found? He waved it and chuckled and crowed, and then his toes,
sticking out beyond the bed-clothes, were nipped by the cold so that he
halloed loudly. Perhaps the rattle had nipped his toes. He did not know,
but he would cry because that eased his feelings.
That morning there came with his grandmother and mother a silly young
woman who had, it was supposed, a great way with babies. "I adore
babies," she said. "We understand one another in the most wonderful
way."
Henry Fitzgeorge looked at her as she leaned over the cot and made faces
at him. "Goo-goo-gum-goo," she cried.
"What is all this?" he asked his Friend. He laid down the rattle, and
felt suddenly lonely and unhappy.
"Little pet--ug--la--la--goo--losh!" Henry Fitzgeorge raised his eyes.
His Friend was a long, long way away; his eyes grew cold with contempt.
He hated this thing that made the noises and closed out the light.
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