"Live for the baby—let him help you out."
"Oh, he can't! I don't care enough for him. I wish I was like other mothers, but I'm not. I can't shut myself up with a baby. I'm too young."
He saw that. She was seeking the love of a man, not the care of a child. She had the wifely passion, but not the mother's love. He was silent; the case baffled him.
"Oh, I wish you could help me! I wish I had you to help me all the time! I do! I don't care what you think—I do! I do!"
"Our home is open to you and baby, too," he said, slowly. "My wife knows about you, and—"
"Who told her—did you?" she flashed out again, angrily, jealously.
"Yes. My wife is my other self," he replied, quietly.
She stared at him, breathing heavily, then looked out of the window again. At last she turned to him. She seemed to refer to his invitation.
"Oh, this terrible land! Oh, I couldn't stay here! I'd go insane. Perhaps I'm going insane, anyway. Don't you think so?"
"No, I think you're a little nervous, that's all."