Come back in half an hour's time." The nurse left them.
Henry Fitzgeorge did not look at his mother.
He had the bear in his arms and was feeling it, and in his mind the warmth from the flickering, jumping flame and the soft, friendly submission of the fur beneath his fingers were part of the same mystery.
His mother had been motoring; her cheeks were flushed, and her dark clothes heightened, by their contrast, her colour.

She knelt down on the carpet and then, with her hands folded on her lap, watched her son.

He rolled the bear over and over, he poked it, he banged its head upon the ground.

Then he was tired with it and took up the rattle.

Then he was tired of that, and he looked across at his mother and chuckled.
His mind, however, was not at all concentrated upon her.