She stopped short, then, at what she saw.
Cyril had not heard her, nor seen her.

His back was partly toward the door.

His coat was off, and his hair stood fiercely on end as if a nervous hand had ruffled it.

His usually pale face was very red, and his forehead showed great drops of perspiration.

He was on his feet, hovering over the couch, at each end of which lay a rumpled roll of linen, lace, and flannel, from which emerged a prodigiously puckered little face, two uncertainly waving rose-leaf fists, and a wail of protesting rage that was not uncertain in the least.
In one hand Cyril held a Teddy bear, in the other his watch, dangling from its fob chain.