"
"Then tell me with kisses."
Again she pressed him to arm's length.
"Please, Leo. Not yet. Let me think. Just one day. Tomorrow."
"No, no. Now."
"Tomorrow."
"When?"
"Evening."
"No, morning."
"All right Leo--tomorrow morning--"
"I'll sit up all night and count every second in every minute and every
minute in every hour."
She put up her soft little fingers to his lips.
"Dear boy," she said.
And then they kissed and after a little swoon to his nearness she
struggled like a caught bird and a guilty one.
"Please go, Leo," she said, "leave me alone--"
"Little mama-baby sweetheart," he said. "I'll build you a nest right
next to hers. Good night, little White Flower. I'll be waiting, and
remember, counting every second of every minute and every minute of
every hour."
For a long time she remained where he had left her, forward on the pink
divan, her head with a listening look to it, as if waiting an answer for
the prayers that she sent up.
At two o'clock that morning, by what intuition she would never know, and
with such leverage that she landed out of bed plump on her two feet,
Alma, with all her faculties into trace like fire-horses, sprang out of
sleep.
It was a matter of twenty steps across the hall. In the white tiled
Roman bathroom, the muddy circles suddenly out and angry beneath her
eyes, her mother was standing before one of the full-length
mirrors--snickering.
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