"Not for a hypothetical one, no." She gave him a side-wise glance, dimpling. "But I would love to have a home of my own."
He humored her, for the sake of watching her rapt and eager face. "What would you do with a house of your own?"
"Oh, I'd have pink silk curtains at all the windows, and loads of books, and flowers, and a cook who could make things like Mr. Farwell's cook can—and—and a grand piano, and an automobile, and a stable full of thoroughbreds and puppies—" She paused for breath.
"Anything else?"
"Oh, yes. Babies! All ages and sizes of babies, small red wrinkled ones, and trot-abouts, and fat little boys in their first trousers—"
"Help, help!" murmured Channing. "Would there be any room in that house for a husband?"
"Yes," she said softly. "I used to think it was a nuisance, having to have a husband before you could have babies; but now—" she glanced at him shyly, and looked away again.
"But now?" he repeated, leaning toward her.
"I—I've changed my mind," she murmured, her heart beating very hard. Was he going to say anything?
The indications were that he was. His eyes had a look that she called to herself "beaming," and he put out his arms as if to take her into them. She swayed a little toward him, to make it easier.