"Mama drink milk," said Moira, speaking with exaggerated clarity.
Moira hated milk.
Len swallowed half his highball, turned and went silently into the kitchen.
When he came back with the milk, Moira looked at it as if it contained a snake. "Len, I didn't say that."
"Okay."
"I didn't. I didn't say mama and I didn't say that about the milk." Her voice quavered. "And I didn't laugh at you when you fell down."
Len tried to be patient. "It was somebody else."
"It was." She looked down at her gingham-covered bulge. "You won't believe me. Put your hand there. No, a little lower."
Under the cloth, her flesh was warm and solid against his palm. "Kicks?" he inquired.
"Not yet. Now," she said in a strained voice, "you in there—if you want your milk, kick three times."