"No," she said. "You
won't approve of it. I've allowed for that."
"Ah," he exclaimed, setting down his liqueur-glass. "You've worked
out the whole problem, eh?"
"I believe so."
"That's uncommonly interesting. And what is it?"
She looked at him quietly. "A baby."
If it was seldom given her to surprise him, she had attained the
distinction for once.
"A baby?"
"Yes."
"A--human baby?"
"Of course!" she cried, with the virtuous resentment of the woman
who has never allowed dogs in the house.
Lethbury's puzzled stare broke into a fresh smile. "A baby I sha'n't
approve of? Well, in the abstract I don't think much of them, I
admit. Is this an abstract baby?"
Again she frowned at the adjective; but she had reached a pitch of
exaltation at which such obstacles could not deter her.
"It's the loveliest baby--" she murmured.
"Ah, then it's concrete. It exists. In this harsh world it draws its
breath in pain--"
"It's the healthiest child I ever saw!" she indignantly corrected.
"You've seen it, then?"
Again the accusing blush suffused her. "Yes--I've seen it."
"And to whom does the paragon belong?"
And here indeed she confounded him. "To me--I hope," she declared.
He pushed his chair back with an inarticulate murmur. "To _you_--?"
"To _us_," she corrected.
"Good Lord!" he said. If there had been the least hint of
hallucination in her transparent gaze--but no: it was as clear, as
shallow, as easily fathomable as when he had first suffered the
sharp surprise of striking bottom in it.
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