"I suppose it was delightful," said Ingeborg, politely sympathetic.
The Baroness's eyes drooped a moment inquiringly from Ingeborg's face to her body.
"For six years," she went on, after a pause, "I had fresh reason for happiness regularly at Christmas."
"I suppose you have the loveliest Christmases here," said Ingeborg. "Like the ones in books. With trees."
"Trees? Naturally we have trees. But I had babies as well. Every Christmas for six years regularly my Christmas present to my dear husband was able to be a baby."
"What?" said Ingeborg, opening her eyes. "A fresh one?"
"Naturally it was fresh. One does not have the same baby twice."
"No, of course not. But—how did you hide it till Christmas day?"
"It could not, naturally," said the Baroness stiffly, "be as much a surprise as a present that was not a baby would have been, but it was for all practical purposes hidden till Christmas. On that day it was born."
"Oh, but I think that was very wonderful," said Ingeborg, genuinely pleased by such neatness. She leaned forward in her enthusiasm and clasped her hands about her knees.