For a frozen moment Henry regarded his wife above the glittering fluff of little-girl curls. It seemed to him he could almost see her face become smaller, like a bit of ice under sun.
"Naughty little Jeanette," he said, shouldering her and carrying her down the stairs; "naughty little girl."
When he returned his wife was sitting locked in the attitude in which he had left her.
"Henry!" she whispered, reaching out and closing her hand over his so that the nails bit in. "Not that, Henry! Tell me not that!"
"Why, Em," he said, sitting down and trembling, "I'm surprised at you, listening to baby talk! Why, Em, I'm surprised at you!"
She leaned over, shaking him by the shoulder.
"I know. They're saying it about me. I'm not that, Henry. I swear I'm not that! Always protect me against their saying that, Henry. Not crazy—not that! It's natural for me to feel queer at times—now. Every woman in this house who says—that—about me has had her nervous feelings. It's not quite so easy for me, as if I were a bit younger. That's all. The doctor said that. But nothing to worry about. Mrs. Peopping had Jeanette—Oh, Henry promise me you'll always protect me against their saying that! I'm not that—I swear to you, Henry—not that!"
"I know you're not, Emmy. It's too horrible and too ridiculous to talk about. Pshaw—pshaw!"
"You do know I'm not, don't you? Tell me again you do know."
"I do. Do."