Sibylla stood very quiet, saying nothing. Christine went on after a minute:
"Can't you manage to be wrapped up in the baby, my dear?"
"No, I can't." The answer was hard and unhesitating. "You've told me something people don't generally tell. I'll tell you something that I didn't think I ever should tell. I love my baby—and sometimes I hate to have to see him." Her eyes were on Christine's face, and there was distress—hopeless distress—in them. "Now I should think you'd drop my acquaintance," she ended with a laugh.
"Oh, I've never had a baby—I'm not shocked to death. But—but why, Sibylla?"
"Surely you can guess why! It's horrible, but it's not unintelligible, surely?"
"No, I suppose it's not," Christine sighed.
Christine's legs had been curled up on her chair; she let them down to the ground and rose to her feet.
"That's all from both of us for to-day?" she asked, with a wry smile.
"All for to-day, I think," answered Sibylla, buttoning her glove.
"I meant to be—friendly."