"Come right in, Mis' Carrington. I'm glad you come. Take off your coat. Yes, we need you. Lay it over there on the bed."
And before the astonished woman knew what she was doing her wrap was laid upon a small white bed and she was standing in her elaborate evening gown looking down at a very red baby being held in a hot bath by the hands of her husband.
"Now, Mis' Carrington, lay that other piece of flannel on the bed, and we'll put the baby in it. I think he's boiled most of his cold out. So—that's right, roll him out—and we'll rub him with the grease. You do it, Mis' Carrington; your hands is younger and not so stiff as mine. Put lots on his chest and around his throat. And turn him over on his back, Mr. Carrington. Put a lot on his back. So—that's right. Rub it in well. And now we'll put him in the bed. There, poor little mite, he breathes better now, don't he?" They stood around the bed, looking down at the child, whose regular breathing showed that he had stopped fighting for his breath and the battle was won. Soon his eyes, which had been staring so pitifully closed, and with a little sigh the baby slept.
Drusilla turned to say something, to speak a few words of thanks for their help; but she stopped at the sight of the two people standing on opposite sides of the little bed. The man with his coat off, his white waistcoat and shirt gleaming in the light, the woman opposite him clothed in her decolette' gown, with jewels glistening in her hair and on her neck. But she did not notice the dress, when she saw the light in the woman's eyes as they rested on the man. They looked into each other's faces for a full moment; then the woman reached over her hand, and in a low, broken voice said, "Robert, is it too late? Shall we try again?" The man's quivering lips could say nothing, but the hand that clasped the one that came to him so timidly was answer enough.
The doctor entered at that moment and the baby was turned over to him, while Drusilla's guests put on their wraps and followed her downstairs. At the door of her sitting-room Drusilla turned to them.
"Won't you come in? You wished to see me about—"
Mr. Carrington said hastily:
"No; we will let the matter wait. We are on our way to the opera—"
"No, Miss Doane," the wife interrupted; "we were on our way to the opera, but now—we're going home, Robert." Turning to the man beside her she repeated: "We're going home, Robert. Do you understand, we're going home!"
Drusilla stood in the hall until the motor started.