Anne was so small and white, so exhausted and utterly content, and his son was such a mite of a thing; although the nurse assured him that little Roger was an "exceptional" fine and healthy boy, Roger felt that any life encased in such a tiny and strengthless form must be precarious. They were so small and helpless, dependent so completely on him. It frightened Roger. Now that his son was there before him, Roger was humble. His own part in this creation no longer seemed a thing of choice. He had been used by the force of Life, which refused to stop. It would go on and on and on, through little Roger and little Roger's sons; on, in its majestic stride indifferent to the means it used, to him as an individual, on to the fulfillment of its own purpose.
Roger went back to the office and was glad that Katya was alone.
"It's a boy," he said queerly, "such a wee mite of red. He fumbles with his clenched fists and sucks in the air. He doesn't seem human."
She listened without looking directly at Roger and did not ask after Anne. Just then Merle came in and Katya began to work again.
But Merle announced that the moment Anne was home she was coming up to see the baby. Roger laughed:
"You wouldn't know which end to take hold of, Merle. He's not bigger than a minute."
"You clumsy brute. I'll bet you're afraid to touch him yourself."
"I am, just about."
Merle giggled. "Well, I'm not and I'm going up to play with him next week."
"You'll be two of a kind," Roger teased, "only don't teach him any of your swear words. They're picturesque—but remember, he's a pure soul."