"Remember, Ted, that cheerfulness is our most important ally. Whatever you feel, don't let her see you anything but cheerful. By the way—" he paused.
"What?" I asked.
"She ought not to kiss her baby or be too close to it."
He studied the monogram on his cigarette case, then offered me a cigarette. I pushed it away. I could see Helen's face in my imagination, when I should tell her she could not kiss her own baby.
"You know," the doctor went on jerkily, "you ought to be careful yourself. Keep away as much as you can—at least, separate bedrooms."
I looked at him. He shrugged.
"It's my duty to warn you—that's all," he said, holding out his hand. "And keep her out of crowds—no horseshow—no theatres."
I think I said good-bye; perhaps I thanked him for his kindness, but I have no recollection of anything further until Helen and I stood outside his house, with the June sunshine pouring down on us. I tried to smile at her as I saw her grey eyes fixed on mine. It was rather a ghastly attempt.
"I want to know everything, Ted. Don't keep anything back."
I told her as gently as I could, while we continued to walk along Harley Street without noticing where we were going.