But for several minutes no one stirred. Hope, even at such moments,
was stronger than machinery of clocks and nurses. There was a general
belief that somehow or other the moment that they dreaded, the moment
that was always coming to block their happiness, could be evaded and
shoved aside. Nothing mechanical like that was wholly true. Daddy had
often used queer phrases that hinted at it: "Some day--A day is
coming--A day will come"; and so forth. Their belief in a special Day
when no one would say "Time" haunted them already. Yet, evidently this
evening was not the momentous occasion; for when Tim mentioned that
the clock was fast, the figure behind the chair replied that she was
half an hour overdue already, and her tone was like Thompson's when he
said, "Dinner's served." There was no escape this time.
Accordingly the children slowly disentangled themselves; they rose and
stretched like animals; though all still ignored the figure behind the
chair. A ball of stuff unrolled and became Maria. "Thank you, Daddy,"
she said. "It was just lovely," said Judy. "But it's only the
beginning, isn't it?" Tim asked. "It'll go on to-morrow night?" And
the figure, having escaped failure by the skin of its teeth, kissed
each in turn and said, "Another time--yes, I'll go on with it.
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