"Nothing."
"Not even a kiss?" says Olga.
"No," somewhat shamefacedly.
"Her mother's own daughter!" says Olga, caressing the child tenderly, but laughing still. "A chilly mortal."
"Good-night, my own," says Hermia, and the child, having kissed them both again, runs away.
Olga follows her with wistful eyes.
"I almost wish I had a baby!" she says.
"You? Why, you can't take care of yourself! You are the least fitted to have a child of any woman that I know. Leave all such charges to staid people like me. Why, you are a baby at heart, yourself, this moment."
"That would be no drawback. It would only have created sympathy between me and my baby. I would have understood all her bad moods and condoned all her crimes."
"If you had been a mother, you would have had a very naughty child."