"I should have had a very happy child, at least." Then she laughs. "Fancy me with a dear little baby!" she says,—"a thing all my own, that would rub its soft cheek against mine and love me better than anything!"
"And rumple all your choicest Parisian gowns, and pull your hair to pieces. I couldn't fancy it at all."
Here the door opens to admit the men, the celestial half-hour after dinner having come to an end. With one consent they all converge towards the window, where Olga and Hermia are standing with Monica, who had joined them to bid good-night to little Fay. Miss Fitzgerald, who had returned to the drawing-room freshly powdered, seeing how the tide runs, crosses the room too, and mingles with the group in the window.
"How long you have been! We feared you dead and buried," she says to Kelly, with elephantine playfulness.
"We have, indeed. I thought the other men would never stir. Why did you not give me the chance of leaving them? The faintest suggestion that you wanted me would have brought me here hours ago."
"If I had been sure of that, I should have sent you a message; it would have saved me a lecture," says Olga, flashing a smile at Hermia.
"I should disdain to send a message," says the proud Bella, "I would not compel any man's presence. 'Come if you will; stay away if you won't,' is my motto; and I cannot help thinking I am right."
"You are, indeed, quite right. Coercion is of small avail in some cases," says Olga, regarding her with the calm dignity of one who plainly considers the person addressed of very inferior quality indeed.
"A woman can scarcely be too jealous of her rights nowadays," says Miss Fitzgerald. "If she has a proper knowledge of her position, she ought to guard it carefully."
"A fine idea finely expressed!" says Kelly, as though smitten into reverence by the grandeur of her manner.