He passed round the foot of the bed to the other side and stood staring. For the first moment what he saw was much what he had expected to see⁠—a baby. But as he stared and the baby breathed and made little sleeping movements with its tiny features, it seemed to assume an individual shape, grew to be like a picture, a thing he would know again; not repulsive, strangely bud-like and touching. It had dark hair. He touched it with his finger, he wanted to see its eyes. They opened, they were dark⁠—whether blue or brown he could not tell. The eyes winked, stared, they had a sort of sleepy depth in them. And suddenly his heart felt queer, warm, as if elated.

“ Ma petite fleur! ” Annette said softly.

“ Fleur ,” repeated Soames: “ Fleur! we’ll call her that.”