“Three.”
“Girls or boys?”
“Girls.”
“All girls? Dear little things! How old?”
“Oldest eight—youngest nine months—”
“So small!” sang Julia, with real tenderness now—Aaron dropped his head. “But you're going home to them, aren't you?” said Josephine, in whose eyes the tears had already risen. He looked up at her, at her tears. His face had the same pale perverse smile.
“Not tonight,” he said.
“But why? You're wrong!” cried Josephine.
He dropped his head and became oblivious.
“Well!” said Cyril Scott, rising at last with a bored exclamation. “I think I'll retire.”