“Are we nearly there?”
“Nearly there, my child.”
“Your child!”
She raised the little bundle in her arms to her breast. The pressure seemed to convey abroad from it a waft of that warm, milky nidor inseparable from newly born infants. Mr Dalston’s white teeth glimmered through the fog.
“For the dozenth time,” he said softly, “I must assure you, little Ellen, that grave issues hang upon the preservation of the tiny life in your arms. That life is threatened only so long as I fail to convince a certain person of its actuality. You mustn’t ask me how or why. It embraces matters above your comprehension.”
“I can’t help it—I’m frightened,” was all she could find voice to whisper.
He put his arm confidently about her. She shivered, but let herself settle into it.
“Hush!” he said. “What is there to be frightened about? I shall do nothing but take it in, show it, and return with it to you.”
“Why do you want me at all?” she protested, half whimpering. “You might have brought it by yourself.”
“What!” he said, “and had Dr Blague questioning my sanity? Do fathers generally take their new-born babies for an airing in cabs? You are to witness, Ellen, if the necessity should ever arise—which, however, there is not the least probability of its doing—that I returned it to you sound as I had taken it.”