"I suppose it was because she didn't want to have them—any more than Mag did. She never had a husband, you see, and that makes it so awkward."
"Meaning the cat?" murmured Channing.
The author of erotic novels was rather pink about the gills. He wondered how much of the girl's naïveté was natural and how much pose. On the whole, judging from her antecedents and environment, he decided that it was largely pose, but thought none the less of her for that. The artificial always interested him more than the natural.
He looked at the baby again with a certain distaste. He had heard from Farwell the story of Mag's adoption into the Storm household, and it had rather shocked him. What was the woman thinking of to surround her young daughters with such influences? Naturally one would not expect prudery, conventionality, from the mistress of Storm, but in his experience quite declasée women guarded more carefully than this the morals of their young.
"I can't think why you want to keep the infant," he said.
Jacqueline looked at him in surprise. "Why, she's perfectly sweet! Look at her precious little curls, and her chubby feet, and all!" She gathered the small Kitty up in her arms protectively. "Didn't the bad old man admire her, then? Bless its heart! Just shows what a stupid he is—Why, Mr. Channing, everybody wants a baby!"
He murmured, "Yes? But in the natural course of events, surely—"
"I might have some of my own, you mean? I hope so—oh, I do hope so! Lots and lots of them. But I might not, you know. The natural course of events doesn't always happen. I might be an old maid. Or I might be wedded to my Art. 'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.' Have you ever thought how perfectly awful it would be to go through life without any children at all?"
Mr. Channing admitted that he had not, and changed the subject. "What particular Art are you thinking of being wedded to?"
Jacqueline looked at him reproachfully, hurt. "I should think you'd know. Didn't you hear me practising?"