Jeannette was silent. She had often thought about having a child. Martin continued:
“Seems to me, Jan, you’d love a baby after it came. I know it’s a pretty tough experience, and you don’t want one so awfully badly, but Gee Christopher! I think a baby would be swell; one of our own, you know, one that belonged to us, that was ours,—and you would, too. I often look at Herbert Gibbs’ kid and wish to goodness he was mine. Herb’s always talking about him and I know damn well I’d be just as looney about a son of my own.... Now take Roy and Alice, for example: see what fun they get out of their children, and that Etta sure’s a heart-breaker! And she’s so jolly, too! Did you ever see a pluckier kid than that? You’d like a little daughter like her, wouldn’t you, Jan? I think a baby would be a lot of fun, don’t you?”
Still she said nothing and he asked his question again, giving her a little squeeze in the circle of his arm.
“I was just thinking about it,” she said vaguely. “It means a good deal for a woman.”
“That’s right, of course. I know it does,—but you wouldn’t be scared, would you, Jan?”
“Oh, no, that wouldn’t bother me—much,” she said slowly. “It’s the ties that bind one afterwards that I was thinking of.”
“Well-l, you want a baby some time, don’t you? You don’t want to grow old and be childless, do you?”
“No; certainly not.”
“Then what’s the good of waiting?”
“A baby’s an expense, and we’re terribly behind. I think we ought to be out of debt first, don’t you?”