"Dear old boy, you still pay me compliments after being married to me for ages. And I like them just as much as ever, Ted." She snuggled against me, saying, "Make me comfy, Ted."
In spite of Helen's joy in travel, I found my courage oozing out of me on that train. The tracks stretched so remorselessly and interminably away from the rear carriage, while we went on and on. Our old life and happiness seemed to be fading far off over many horizons. Ahead of us there was nothing but a strange land and an unknown, perilous struggle. I wondered at the towns we passed through, and if, in each village we went by, there were others righting the same fears and watching beside their beloveds.
Mother and baby often sat on opposite seats, chattering to each other of the things seen out the window—gee-gees, moo-cows, and all the rest that all mothers show their babies. Little Helen no longer could sit in her mother's lap.
"Daddy," she asked one day, "why can't I sit in mummy dear's lap any more the way I did in England?"—everything now she compared with England—"and, daddy, why doesn't mummy dear kiss me good-night any more?"
I held little Helen very tight at this, for a pair of grey eyes opposite were staring out the Pullman window.
"Ted," said the grey eyes slowly, "tell her the truth."
"Mummy dear is ill, little girl—and the doctor says you mustn't sit in her lap or kiss her until she is quite well again."
"I want mummy dear to get well quickly, daddy. Tell the doctor to make her well. I want mummy dear to kiss me again."
"Ted, I'm afraid I'll have—to ask you—to—to take baby back—to nurse," the grey eyes tried to smile. "I can't stand—everything, dear."