"Not yet. Not till it is a little farther along." He set the third cup down untasted. His face, as Miss Theodosia looked smilingly at it across the baby's head, had grown grave. She wondered simply. Miss Theodosia was not making a love-story.
"Will you tell us about it when it's farther along? About the heroine and how she likes being in a love-story? Mercy gracious, it must be exciting!"
"If I can find out how she likes it," was his enigmatic answer. "She may not work out as I want her to. Heroines are women, you know."
"Well, of all things! If you can't make your heroine behave, I don't see who can!"
"I don't," he said slowly. "But I shall do my best."
Another day, she had something to show him, and she made a little mystery of it at first. She and Elly Precious knew! It was something sweet—it could be worn, but you seldom looked at it. It was soft and hard, too. You could—kiss it! When it was empty you wanted to kiss it, and when it was full you had to!
"Show it to me!" he commanded; "think I can guess all that?"
She brought it and laid it in his hands, delighted like a girl.
"Feel of it—isn't it soft? And I never made one before, so it was hard! You seldom look at it, because it's worn in the dark. You'd like to kiss it now, it's so sweet, but when I put Elly Precious into it, you'll have to kiss it! There, didn't I tell you right?"
It was a little nightgown she had made for Elly Precious. He held it on his two big hands like something wonderful. Its little sleeves dangled over, and she caught one of them and squeezed it in a sort of soft ecstasy.