Claire sprang up from her seat. "Oh, Herbert! did you say that? And did he ... stand it?"
"Yes, he stood it. I didn't think he would, for a moment or two. It was imprudent of me, perhaps—on your account, I mean. But he walked away, without a word.... And now, Claire, promise me that you will never, as long as we both live, refer to this matter again."
She threw her arms about his neck. "Never!" she cried. "I didn't want to speak of it, as it was. I promise you, with all my heart!"
They had been married several years when a child, a boy, was born to them. Claire made the most adoring of mothers. Mrs. Diggs, who was forever dropping in upon her friend, with even more than her former intimacy, said, once, while she watched the baby laugh on its mother's lap, after the bath that Claire had lovingly given it with her own hands:—
"Upon my word, it does seem so odd, don't you know? I can't just quite realize it, even yet, Claire, dear."
"Realize what?" said Claire, looking up from the rosy little treasure on her lap with a smile and two touches of color, for which the joy of her own motherhood was solely responsible.
"Why, that you are the same being I used to know. It's a perfectly lovely change. You remember how I used to dote on you then. But I dote on you even more, now. Still, where have all your grand ambitions flown to?"
Claire looked serious, for a moment. Then she gave a light, sweet laugh. "Oh, I'm a very ambitious woman yet," she said.
THE END.