His own eyes grew grave, in instant sympathy. At such moments he was still the sentimental boy whom she could manage.
“Ah, poor Chatty, indeed!” He groped for the readiest panacea. “Lucky, now, after all, that she has those paupers, isn’t it? I suppose a woman must have children to love—somebody else’s if not her own.” It was evident that the thought of the remedy had already relieved his pain.
“Yes,” Delia agreed, “I see no other comfort for her. I’m sure Joe will feel that too. Between us, darling—” and now she let him have her hands—“between us, you and I must see to it that she keeps her babies.”
“Her babies?” He smiled at the possessive pronoun. “Of course, poor girl! Unless indeed she’s sent to Italy?”
“Oh, she won’t be that—where’s the money to come from? And, besides, she’d never leave Aunt Lovell. But I thought, dear, if I might tell her tomorrow—you see, I’m not exactly looking forward to my talk with her—if I might tell her that you would let me look after the baby she’s most worried about, the poor little foundling girl who has no name and no home—if I might put aside a fixed sum from my pin-money....”
Their hands flowed together, she lifted her flushing face to his. Manly tears were in his eyes; ah, how he triumphed in her health, her wisdom, her generosity!
“Not a penny from your pin-money—never!”
She feigned discouragement and wonder. “Think, dear—if I’d had to give you up!”
“Not a penny from your pin-money, I say—but as much more as you need, to help poor Chatty’s pauper. There—will that content you?”
“Dearest! When I think of our own, upstairs!” They held each other, awed by that evocation.