She was pale and motionless, and yet she seemed as startling as a blaze of light. Her forlorn and betrayed loneliness was like a halo about her young head.
Recovering from her momentary alarm, she went on toward the nursery. Lester was miserably irresolute. He wanted to go out and tell her to go boldly to her baby, to go arrogantly, proudly. He couldn’t endure her furtiveness.
“After all, it’s her baby,” he thought. “My God, what an awful thing we’ve done!”
He imagined her in the dimly lit nursery, standing beside the crib, and looking into that chubby little face. It suddenly occurred to him that the nurse might be about, and might send Maisie away. He decided to stop that.
He had come out into the hall on that errand when Maisie, too, came out from the other room. She had the baby in her arms, huddled in a blanket.
They faced each other for the first time since their honeymoon. In spite of all that they had forgotten, in spite of the gulf of injustice and suffering between them, some little spark of honest and beautiful good will was in their hearts. It was not love—that had been murdered—but loyalty to their past love.
“Maisie!” he said. “Oh, Maisie! I’m sorry!”
She bent her head in an attitude of sublime and humble resignation.
“Just let me have my baby!” she entreated softly.