Something in Anne's tone made Roger look at her intently. He had come as near having a quarrel with Hilary Wainwright that afternoon as he could come, and still keep the secretaryship. He had intended to laugh off his seriousness and to say nothing until he was surer of himself, but, at the look in Anne's eyes, he changed his mind:
"Anne, the man's false. I don't believe he really believes a thing he says. It's a pose, as much of a pose as those silly soft shirts he wears and those ready-made clothes. He thinks it brings him nearer to 'The People.' He——"
But Anne did not hear beyond the first sentence. Roger stood before her, defying John Lowell, giving up the law. She rose slowly from his knees and said quietly:
"Let's not talk about that to-night. Roger,—we're going to have a baby."
It seemed to Anne an hour that they stood staring at each other while she saw understanding dawn slowly in Roger's eyes. Understanding, and then such a blank look of helplessness, that Anne felt the fears of the last weeks form visibly before her and swarm down, almost suffocating her.
"Good Lord!" he whispered.
Tears ran down Anne's cheeks.
Roger brushed his hand across his eyes and reached to her, but Anne stepped back.
"You—don't—want—it," she whispered fiercely, "but I do. I don't care how many people there are already. I want my baby. I——" She was almost hysterical now.
Roger took her firmly in his arms.